


Call Us Dropout Heroes

by waitingforjudas



Series: Calloused Hearts and Egos [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boot Worship, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military Backstory, Military Kink, Military Uniforms, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Part 1 is 3k, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Work, Slow Build, Stripper Stiles Stilinski, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Sugar Baby Stiles Stilinski, Sugar Daddy Derek Hale, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Derek Hale, Touch-Starved, for Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22850200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingforjudas/pseuds/waitingforjudas
Summary: Derek wantsmore—but he’s scarred to hell and back, and not just physically. It’s not just that nobody would want him unless they were getting paid—it’s that nobody would stay unless there was something in it for them. So when a date with Stiles, the gorgeous, kind stripper, goes wrong, Derek figures out how to get him to stay, despite his baggage.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes
Series: Calloused Hearts and Egos [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1525076
Comments: 47
Kudos: 222





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everybody! I’d like to let you know a few things to begin with, before we get into the story. 
> 
> First, I have a full, complete, dense outline for this story. I’m expecting it to be around 50k when completed, but I don’t know for sure. I haven’t fully drafted this story, so it’s definitely a guesstimate. I don't have a posting schedule, either, since this is incomplete and being posted as I write and edit it. 
> 
> Second, I have another couple (major) projects. I’m finishing up an original fiction trilogy with a novel that’s going to be at least 200k when completed, and is likely going to hit closer to 250k-300k. After that’s finished, I’m going to be moving directly into another original fiction novel that I’m guessing will be around 150k-200k. I love writing fanfiction, but original fiction is my priority. 
> 
> Third, if I say something offensive in this story, _please tell me!_ I don't want to accidentally write something offensive or otherwise inappropriate, so if I fuck up, please let me know. You can message me anonymously on my tumblr or post a comment on this story. 
> 
> Finally, **_this is a sequel_**. The first part is like 3k and a lot of fun, so it’s probably not that brutal to read (I hope) and it's my second-highest fic rated by kudos, so… probably not too awful, lol. You do need to read the first part in order for this to make full sense.
> 
> **December 9, 2020 update: This work is no longer on hiatus, but updates are not regular.**

Derek gasped awake, his heart thundering in his chest as he looked to the alarm clock. He’d had it set to 7 AM for… months, actually, but he’d only made it to 7 AM once, when he’d fallen asleep at 6:15. 

It was five-thirty, though, and that was close enough. He’d sleep when he was dead, right? 

He almost wished that the drugs his psychiatrist had been prescribing him would work without so many side effects. That he could just take the sleep pills and knock himself out for ten hours straight, but the last time he’d tried was a few weeks ago, and he’d been a zombie all day because, although they were basically heavy-duty sedatives, he hadn’t been able to fall asleep. 

No, his system of naps every four hours worked well enough. Even though everybody else hated them, they worked well enough for him, and it—it wasn’t like he even had a job. 

Derek kicked the blankets off of his body, staring up at the ceiling fan as it lazily wobbled, circling endlessly. It wasn’t nearly as effective at cooling him down these days, but he was still sleeping under heavy blankets every night, no matter what. 

Maybe he should just get one of those weighted blankets that Erica was already pressing him to buy. “It’s an investment,” she’d say. “You deserve it. Treat yourself.” 

He was still sleeping fully clothed, though, under twenty-odd pounds of blankets, and even with his air conditioner blasting around the clock and the fan on, he woke up sweating half the time. Even if he didn’t have a nightmare. 

Those rare occasions. 

He got up. No use in dwelling. 

Not anymore. 

###

Derek stripped his tank top off on his way to the shower. It was soaked through when he woke up, but the last hour of weight-lifting had gotten it nasty enough that he didn’t think he could tolerate having it on for even another minute. 

He turned the shower on—one of those fucking fancy rich-person showers that he couldn’t stand. Instead of a normal showerhead, it was half a dozen nozzles with impressive jet power, and while it helped reduce the need for him to touch other people—apparently, warmth and pressure simulated it well enough. 

Which— It wasn’t fucking sad, it was just— 

It was just that Stiles was the first person he’d been able to touch for months. Except for when his doctor examined his shoulder and arm to make sure the muscles were still loose enough, that his scar tissue wasn’t somehow spreading or—or whatever he was checking for. 

And, further, it had eliminated the need for him to get massages—another recommendation to keep his muscles loose, to avoid aggravating the scars… somehow. 

He’d never really paid much attention, frankly. He hadn’t thought he’d ever need to. 

Derek’d have to get the mail before it got too light out. 

He stripped off his shorts and stepped into the shower, wincing at how forceful the water pressure was. 

Rich people problems. 

He almost laughed at himself. He’d give it all back if he could even just get one person back. 

Just one. 

###

It was too bright by the time he finished his shower, and he had to pick up his groceries, anyway. 

Derek had decked himself out in big, dark sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a long-sleeved, high-collared jacket. He’d considered trying to put on the foundation that Erica had gotten him, but it wasn’t like it’d do anything. It would just make his scars look lumpier, more grotesque. 

Then again, wasn’t that—

He turned in to the fourth parking space and texted the numbers in. 

A woman, long brown hair and sweet doe eyes, ran over. 

She looked like C—

He cracked his window. 

“Good morning, sir. You’re Derek Hale?” 

“Yes. I have a cold. Sorry.” 

“Oh, that’s fine,” she said, taking a half step back. “We had to substitute chocolate protein powder for vanilla. Is that all right? It’s the same cost.” 

“It’s fine,” he said, avoiding looking at her. 

“Okay,” she chirped—not quite Cora. 

Not enough. 

“Well, I’ll get your groceries in just a minute, okay?” 

Derek jerked his head in what felt like a nod and rolled up the window. 

He was still pissed at Erica for refusing to get groceries for him anymore, and even more so—irrationally—at Boyd and Isaac for being a “united front.” 

He would get delivery—especially since money was no fucking object—but, while the sick routine worked if they didn’t need to come to his house, it would be infinitely too fucking creepy if he wore sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a jacket that went up to his chin to get groceries. 

Maybe a hangover could explain it, but he got the feeling he’d have the police called on him if he tried. 

A knock rung out on his window and Derek jerked back, the seatbelt trapping him, pinning him to the seat, and—

“Mr. Hale?” 

Derek cracked the window, trying to come back to himself. “Yes?” He tried to make it sound less panicked, more monotone. 

It didn’t really work. 

“Can you open your trunk?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry.” He rolled up the window before fumbling for the button to open the trunk. He never took the Camaro when he got groceries, but that was entirely because, otherwise, he’d only be able to stock up for a couple weeks at a time—at most. 

The trunk beeped, and he kept his eyes forward, glancing at the rearview mirror intermittently to double check that he couldn’t see them. 

If he could see them, they could see him. 

They kept piling groceries in and Derek grew slowly tenser and tenser. 

He grabbed at his pill bottle in the cup holder—he was sure that he still had at least one left, that—

He was out. 

“That’s the last of it, Mr. Hale.” 

His trunk closed and Derek’s grip on the pill bottle—irrationally, ridiculously—tightened. 

He waited until they’d cleared out fully to adjust his mirror again and slowly backed out. He’d have to stop by the drive-thru pharmacy before he got to go home. 

###

Derek stared at the front door, Inderal in one hand and water in the other. It was almost dark enough—sunset was in just a couple more minutes. 

But he’d need to get the mail before he could see Stiles. And the cookies would be done soon. 

Really soon. 

He swallowed the pill before he could think about it too much longer and chugged the rest of the water. 

Derek grabbed his mailbox key and shifted the blinds on the window next to the door. He couldn’t see anybody, but—

He grabbed his baseball cap and adjusted its brim, pulling the thumbholes of his sweater down and anchoring the sleeves into place so he couldn’t accidentally pull them up. 

It was dark enough. And he wanted to see Stiles sooner than later, so—

Derek unlocked his door and slowly crept out of his house, praying nobody would be out this late. 

He’d had a good day, though. He had to just focus on that. 

He’d been productive. He’d finished rereading Jane Eyre—he’d never liked it until after everything—for the fourteenth time, and he’d cleaned his entire kitchen. Deep-cleaned it, in fact. And his bathroom. 

He still needed to change his sheets, but if he pulled off the fitted sheet, he’d have to change the mattress pad, too. 

He’d done plenty. 

He sped up as he grew closer to the cluster boxes. All of his neighbors had decorated theirs—those without children (most of them) had their house number or initials on the box, and those with children had… a lot of various decorations. 

They were all marked except for his. 

That was for the best, though. Really. If he was forgettable, then nobody would try to invite him to the block parties, and nobody would worry about setting off fireworks. 

He refused to impose on their parties just because of his own bullshit. 

He unlocked his mailbox and pulled out the junk mail it was filled with. And one letter from Isaac, who insisted that snail mail would make a return. 

Derek was sure it was just to make him leave the house more frequently than once or twice a month. 

Obviously, Derek hadn’t mentioned that he was returning to that strip club Isaac had recommended. 

Not even Derek was that pathetic, to admit that he was going back to see Stiles just about every night he was working and bringing along some kind of dinner for him. 

And if he brought homemade dinners for Stiles, well… that was just because drive-thrus weren’t worth it unless they were for picking up prescriptions. 

Derek locked his mailbox back up and hurried home. Stiles always got so excited when he brought some kind of dessert, and he wouldn’t bring burnt cookies for him. 

Even though he knew Stiles would appreciate them all the same. 

###

Derek pulled the cookies out of the oven—double chocolate stuffed with marshmallows. 

Derek’s favorites were snickerdoodles, but Stiles always moaned like he was coming when Derek brought anything chocolate. 

The last few visits definitely hadn’t featured chocolate desserts. 

“Hey,” someone said—Erica—and Derek jerked, dropping the tray onto the cooling rack hard enough that the cookies bounced. 

Twice in one day that he’d been so distracted that somebody had snuck up on him. 

“Erica,” Derek growled, and slapped at her hand as she reached out for a cookie. 

She grabbed it anyway, unsurprisingly. 

“Don’t worry,” she said, eyes lighting up as she pulled the cookie apart into two halves and watched the marshmallow goo stretch and pull, “you were out getting mail. You’re still a great tracker.” 

Derek gritted his teeth. “I’m busy.” 

She eyed him and took a bite of the cookie. “You don’t eat these.” 

“Yes,” he said, “I do. You don’t.” 

Erica offered him the unbitten half, wiggling it in his face. “Have some, Der.” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

She eyed him as he ran a spatula under the cookies, checking to make sure they were holding their form well enough to move onto the rack itself. 

“You’re still seeing him,” she said. 

“Where’s Boyd? You said he dropped you off.” 

“He’s walking Freddie in the park. Don’t change the subject, Derek. You’re still seeing him.” 

He grabbed the tray with his bare hand and dropped it right back down, hissing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Erica.” 

“Yeah,” she said, climbing up on the counter, “you do. That guy? What’s his name… Miles? Kyle?” 

He wasn’t taking the bait. 

“Steve? Steven? Stan? Stubble?” 

“Erica,” he said, tone too warning for anybody but Erica to ignore. 

“It’s good,” she said. “That you’re still seeing him, expanding your friend group and all.” 

“It’s not your business.” 

“I know he’s not just your friend,” Erica said, licking her thumb where marshmallow had gotten stuck to it as Derek started shovelling the cookies off the pan and onto the cooling rack. “I know you like him.” 

“Will you—”

“You should make a move.” 

Derek huffed, abandoning the cookies to set the tray and the spatula in the sink to soak the marshmallow off of. “How do you know I haven’t?” 

“Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry, am I supposed to assume your personality’s been switched? How did it go? Are you dating? Boyfriends? What do—”

“No,” Derek gritted out, grabbing a Tupperware out of the cabinet and pulling out some paper towels to pack with the cookies. “But it’s my life to ruin, so—” 

“Or, you know, you could just… not ruin your life.” 

“That’s what I’m trying to do.” 

He set the Tupperware down with the paper towels and pulled out the French fries he’d cut up earlier. He still needed to fry them, but—

“What’s the worst that could happen? Realistically.” 

“Realistically?” He shot her a sharp look. “He says no, gets uncomfortable, and refuses to talk to me anymore.” 

“It’s not good that you’ve—”

“Erica,” he said, turning to her. “Please. Let me fuck up my life on my own.” 

“Okay.” 

She kept nibbling at the cookie as Derek set up the deep fryer. 

“I think,” she said, much softer, “that you should go for it. He’s a good guy, Derek. Scott vouched for him.” 

“You don’t even know Scott,” he said, tired. 

“I was scared, too. With Boyd.” 

Every time he’s heard that, it’s been close to impossible to hold back a snort. Erica and Boyd are easily the most in-love people he’s ever known. 

“That’s different,” he said. 

Erica jumped off the counter, packing the last of her cookie into her cheek like a hamster. “I promise, Derek,” she said, “it’s really not.” 

With that, she smiled, made an aborted move—probably to hug him—and left. 

Derek listened to the door click shut and the lock slide over and her quick little jerk of the knob to check that the lock that fallen into place properly. 

Checking that he was safe. 

He dropped the potatoes into the fryer basket and watched as bubbles filled the oil. 

Maybe she was right. But maybe she was wrong. 

Either way, Derek wasn’t sure he could take that chance yet. 

###

The strip club wasn’t particularly crowded—compared to what it was on a Friday night, anyway—and Derek had his wallet ready by the time he got to the bar. 

“Hey, Derek!” Scott said, grinning at him. “What’ll it be?” 

Derek handed him a fifty and shrugged. 

“I’ll get you something good. Stiles thought it up, actually, the other day, but it’s taken some fiddling.” 

Derek tried not to perk up too much. “What is it?” 

“Honey. And whiskey. You wouldn’t think it’d work, but—”

“No, I’m—” Derek cleared his throat. “I’m not surprised.” 

Scott raised an eyebrow at him but grinned, nodding. “Well, you’ll like it. I’m sure of it.” 

“Is Stiles, um.” 

“He’s finishing up with somebody,” Scott said, still grinning just as brightly as he poured out whiskey into glasses. “It’ll be a few minutes, but only that, really.” 

Derek nodded, swallowing hard as his shoulders tensed up. He scratched his fingernail at the seam of the Tupperware. He’d ended up covering the curly fries with bacon, corn, queso blanco, and chili lime crema, but he’d run out of green onions and forgotten to order more from the grocery store. Derek figured Stiles wouldn’t mind too much. 

Hopefully. 

“Here,” Scott said, pushing over three glasses of amber-colored liquid that looked… surprisingly good. 

He picked one up and sniffed it carefully. 

“Stiles tried it out,” Scott said. “He said it was good.” 

Derek hesitated, but sipped it carefully. 

It was good. Definitely not Derek’s thing, but… it was good. 

Drinking wasn’t usually Derek’s thing, though. Which was probably for the best, or else he’d’ve drunk himself into a stupor a long time ago. 

He kept sipping at it, though, just a little as he waited for Stiles to finish whatever it was. 

Whoever it—

He didn’t need to think about that. Not yet. 

There was a man up on the stage, shaking his ass in a G-string to some bass-heavy song. 

Derek turned back towards the bar and worried his lip as he tried not to panic about what Stiles was doing. They’d— This wasn’t always— 

Stiles didn’t usually do this. Take clients to a private room. 

Maybe what they’d done that first night was what he usually did. Maybe—

Maybe Derek should just stop. Everything. 

He’d thought about what Erica said, and he could tell her as much honestly, but he couldn’t risk a good thing just to—

“Hey, Derek,” and Derek turned to see Stiles sauntering over in tight black shorts and an open red hoodie. 

Not a stitch of clothing anywhere else. 

Derek tried not to choke on the sip of honey whiskey he’d stupidly taken. 

Stiles grinned at him, leaning on the bar counter next to him. “You wanna come back with me? Normally, I insist on no touching, but for you….” Stiles looked him up and down and licked his lips—and it was exaggerated, yes, but it looked genuine. “I might make an exception.” 

“Stiles,” Scott groaned, and Derek snapped back to himself like a rubber band as he flushed, fumbling with the Tupperware and the drink he’d been holding. 

“What?” Stiles said, still smiling at Derek. “I might.” 

“Stiles!” 

Stiles ignored Scott, though, and took the Tupperware from Derek. “Let’s go. Big boy.” 

Derek rolled his eyes, snorting as he followed Stiles to a private room. 


	2. Chapter 2

The room that Stiles took him to was the one that Stiles always groused about. It was themed in the style of “animals,” and while Derek assumed that it was a reference to animalistic sex, Stiles was convinced that it was to creep out creeps and soften their boners. 

Derek had replied that, if they were really that creepy, it wouldn’t make them softer. 

Stiles had asked why he would say something so upsetting. 

It had been a good night. 

“So,” Stiles said, kicking the door closed behind them, “what’d you get me tonight?” 

“Um,” Derek said, obediently sitting down on the couch. “Marshmallow cookies and fries.”

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him as he sat down next to him, threw his legs over Derek’s lap, and started popping open the Tupperware. “Dude,” Stiles said. “This is so far from fries.” 

“It’s still—”

Stiles had picked up a handful of them, though, and shoved them in his mouth with a pleased groan. “God, Der,” he said around the food, sounding, if nothing else, thoroughly happy. “You spoil me.” 

It was really the other way around. But Stiles never acted like it. 

Derek smiled at him, nervous, and tried not to look as scared as he felt, watching Stiles gulping food like he was starving. “Um,” he said. 

Stiles blushed, smiling close-lipped. “Sorry,” he said, covering his mouth with one hand. “Got a little… these are really good, Der. You know, I’ve been meaning to ask where you get these.” 

His heart stuttered. “Um,” he repeated. “I—I—I make them.” 

He chewed his lip as Stiles’ eyes went wide. “Dude,” he said. 

“Don’t call me dude.” 

Stiles swallowed, smile breaking into a grin. 

He had a bit of corn stuck in his teeth, but if it hadn’t been there, he might have looked almost scary. Unattainable, completely and utterly. 

Derek looked away, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I, um. I thought you might like those.” He nodded towards the cookies. 

Whatever he did, it would never be enough to keep Stiles. It would never make Stiles want to stay. 

Derek was his fucking personal chef and a client. He paid Stiles to dance and strip for him, and—and he’d deluded himself. 

He was delusional, thinking Stiles even liked him. Much less wanted him. 

God, he probably just liked Derek because he brought food and paid well and without trouble. And— Oh, god. 

Derek was such a fucking—

“Thank you,” Stiles said, and Derek glanced back to him. Stiles was being sincere, and that—that made it worse, irrationally. Stiles was grateful because Derek had brought him some cookies. 

Crappy cookies at that. 

“Of course,” Derek said, even though it wasn’t nearly enough. 

He could do everything in the world, and he’d still never deserve Stiles. 

Maybe— Maybe he should just—

“Are you okay?” 

Derek jerked despite himself, nodding. “Sorry. Yeah. Yeah, I’m—I’m fine.” 

Stiles had stopped eating—he hadn’t finished, but he’d stopped—and he set the Tupperware down on the table. “Derek, you’re acting weird. Did I do something wrong? I—”

“No! God, Stiles, no, of—of course you didn’t—” He shook his head vehemently. “No, you did nothing wrong.” 

“Are you okay?” Stiles repeated. 

No. Derek shook his head again, much slower, much weaker. Much less convicted. “I don’t think so,” he whispered. 

And then Stiles was on him like a koala, hugging him, sitting in his lap, and tucking his face into the crook of Derek’s neck. “You wanna talk about it?” 

That Erica had him wondering if he was being an idiot? If anything about this was real? If he should—

“Do—” He broke off. If he never asked Stiles, then nothing would change, but—but it might. Stiles might drift away. Find somebody he wanted to be with. 

He could lose Stiles just from not fucking trying. 

Maybe—

“Do you want to go on a date?” Derek said, pressing his forehead onto Stiles’ shoulder. 

Every muscle in Stiles’ body went tense and Derek’s heart sank. 

He wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t. 

He wasn’t going to cry, either. 

“You mean it?” Stiles asked—with something in his voice that Derek couldn’t quite pick out or fully understand. 

Against his better judgment, Derek nodded. 

Stiles’ arms tightened around him. “Yes! Yes, oh my god, I’d love to.” 

“You— What?” 

Stiles pulled back, leaning back but keeping his hands on Derek’s shoulders. He was frowning, just a little. “What, did you think I’d say no?” 

Derek, in fact, had thought Stiles would kick him out and ban him from the strip club, but that sounded paranoid, so he just nodded. 

“God, Derek,” Stiles said. He pressed one hand to Derek’s face, searching his eyes in a way that made Derek feel split open, cracked open at the very center, right down his sternum, like his very ribs were parting and offering up his heart in the most literal possible way. “You don’t even— This is— Shit. Do you not realize how much I want you?” 

Derek stared, paralyzed almost entirely, but he shook his head. 

Stiles stood, mischief sparking in his eyes as he grinned. “You know,” he said, “I haven’t been good about that lately, have I?” 

Derek frowned slightly. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” Stiles said, wiggling his hips as he walked over to adjust the music, “I haven’t shown you just how much I want you. Not for a while, anyway.” 

“I—I mean,” Derek said, faltering as Stiles hit a button and bass-heavy music started playing. “It’s—”

“Do you want this?” Stiles stalked forward, eyes sharp—cock not nearly as soft as it had been a moment earlier. “Do you want me? I need a yes or a—”

“Yes,” Derek hissed, unable to decide where he wanted to look—what he wanted to see. Stiles’ cock, hardening in his tight black shorts, Stiles’ stomach, framed by his red hoodie, his mole-speckled throat that Derek wanted to lay claim to desperately, his mouth that Derek wanted to kiss and lick, his eyes. 

His eyes that were sparking with something dangerous, something barely controlled. 

Something perfect. 

Something that Derek wanted—that Derek needed. 

Stiles shrugged the shoulders of the red hoodie off, and Derek stared, trying not to lick his lips as Stiles let it slowly slip down his arms and onto the floor as he stalked forward like Derek was his prey. Like Derek was his dinner, not the fucking French fries. 

Derek shuddered as Stiles hooked a finger into his waistband and knelt on either side of Derek’s legs, which he quickly pressed together to give Stiles more room as Stiles straddled him. 

“Do you know what I want to do to you, Derek?” Stiles asked, leaning in to ghost hot breaths against Derek’s ear, which should’ve felt uncomfortable, or at least strange, but it—

Derek shuddered, his entire body practically convulsing as Stiles’ breath slipped along his carotid artery as it pulsed. 

Derek shook his head—he didn’t know. He didn’t know. 

“Tell me,” Derek said—gasped, whined, he wasn’t sure. 

All he knew was Stiles and Stiles’ hard cock, covered by the fucking black shorts, almost touching Derek’s stomach. 

Almost. 

“I want to suck you off,” Stiles whispered, and nuzzled his fucking nose against Derek’s cheek, rubbing against his beard. “I want to suck you until you’re so wet your cock smells like my mouth first and your precome second. I want to suck you until you’re wet enough that I could just sit down on your lap and put your cock in my hole. And once you’re in me, I want to tease you until one wrong move would have you coming deep inside of me, claiming me as yours. What do you think, Derek? Does that sound good to you?” 

Derek nodded. 

Probably. 

He couldn’t really breathe. And he didn’t really mind. 

Stiles kissed him, hard, licking into his mouth, and Derek whined as he tried to kiss back—but that was a losing battle and he knew it. 

He couldn’t bring himself to care about it. 

Stiles’ hand slipped down from his shoulder to his chest, his nails scratching over Derek’s nipple, and lower, brushing over his abs to just above his cock. 

“Stiles,” Derek whined as he broke away from the kiss, head falling backwards like he couldn’t actually physically control it. 

It was more that he was trying to prevent his hips from fucking up and possibly unseating Stiles, but—

“You want me to suck your cock, big guy?” 

He hated that nickname. He hated it on just about every day of the year except in that moment. 

Derek nodded, somehow coordinating enough of his muscles to watch Stiles as he slid to the floor in a move that was so outrageously smooth and fluid that Derek could’ve come in that moment if Stiles had just kept doing that. 

He needed to remember to never ask Stiles to do ballet or something for him. He wouldn’t make it more than a minute. 

And then that train of thought derailed as Stiles’ long fingers opened his button and pulled his zipper down. 

Derek tried not to blush at how hard he was—how obviously desperate he was to have Stiles touching him, on him, around him. His underwear was stained dark, and he regretted wearing dark purple boxer briefs—not just because it showed how much he’d leaked, but because they were purple. 

He hadn’t even—

“God, Derek, you’re so fucking hot,” Stiles murmured, and then he wrapped a hand around the base of Derek’s cock and Derek was lost. 

He was lost as Stiles slowly fisted him, working his fingers up and down Derek’s shaft, his thumb rubbing against Derek’s slit where precome kept beading, tugging at Derek’s foreskin with every stroke. 

And then Stiles’ mouth, hot and wet, sucked his cockhead down and Derek grunted, trying not to scream in sheer desperation. 

He could feel how Stiles’ mouth curled up at the corners, how his teeth almost pressed into Derek’s cock before he seemed to catch himself. 

Stiles sucked hard, all at once, and Derek’s hips bucked up, hard. 

“Oh— God, Stiles, I’m so—”

“Again,” Stiles rasped, and grabbed Derek’s hand, moving it from his cheek to his hair. 

Derek froze, eyes wide. “You can’t mean—”

Stiles looked up at him, lips spread wide around Derek, and maintained complete eye contact with him as he slowly sank down on Derek’s cock, his lips pressing down, down, down even as he gagged and choked and his fingers pressed hard into Derek’s thighs. 

The moment his nose pressed into Derek’s pubic hair, he gagged around Derek’s cock again, harder, and Derek pulled him back by his hair, and Stiles—Stiles moaned even as he sniffled, tears pooling at his eyes. 

Stiles couldn’t possibly trust him this much. That—that was impossible. 

It had to be. 

But, like he was drugged, Derek combed his hand through Stiles’ hair, gripped it again until Stiles moaned, and then held him still as he slowly lifted his hips, pressing into Stiles’ mouth deeper and deeper even as Stiles gagged around him. 

He pulled Stiles off again, all the way. “Are— Stiles, are you sure?” 

“Please, Derek,” he said—voice like he’d been gargling with motherfucking gravel, and Derek broke. 

He nodded and gripped his cock with one hand, pressing back into Stiles’ mouth. He didn’t want to do this for long, but if Stiles wanted to….

“If you want to stop,” Derek said, voice almost shaking—from nerves or arousal he didn’t know—as he spoke, “just—just get my attention. Hit me or—or pinch my leg or—” 

Stiles let go of one of Derek’s legs to give him a thumbs-up. 

Derek nodded, bit his lip, and eased his cock deeper down Stiles’ throat—slow at first, and then letting himself grow faster, watching in shock as Stiles gagged and choked on his cock, as Stiles’ throat bulged to accommodate him and then released as Derek drew back, and Stiles just stared up at him like he was something glorious. 

Like he was something to worship. 

Derek gritted his teeth as he held Stiles still for a second, his cock barely pressing down Stiles’ throat. If he moved—if Stiles moved—he would come. 

Stiles held still, kept looking up at him with complete trust. 

Derek squeezed his eyes shut and slowly drew out of Stiles’ mouth, loosening his grip on Stiles’ hair. 

“You good?” Stiles asked—and if Derek had thought his voice was raspy before, it was nothing compared to what it was now. 

“Yeah,” Derek said, nodding as he sat—fell back down onto the couch. He ran his hand through Stiles’ hair and tried not to stare as Stiles’ eyes fluttered shut for a moment. 

“So,” Stiles said. “Can I sit on your cock now?” 

Derek nodded again. “Please, Stiles,” he whispered, openly staring now as Stiles pulled his black shorts off and freed his cock—and his hole. 

“Lie back,” Stiles said, and Derek obeyed, lying flat on his back and propping his neck against the armrest. 

Stiles grinned at him and threw one leg over Derek’s hips, straddling him again—but this time, Derek’s cock butted up against Stiles’ thigh and it was already almost too much. 

“I’m— Stiles, I’m not gonna last.” 

“You think I am?” Stiles snorted, and with that, took Derek’s cock in one hand, pulled one asscheek aside with the other, and sat down. 

Derek’s eyes rolled back as Stiles wiggled his goddamn hips on Derek’s lap. 

“Stiles,” Derek moaned, fucking up into Stiles and getting the tiniest, most infinitesimal bit deeper. 

Stiles’ balls rested heavy and warm against Derek, and Derek tightened his grip on Stiles’ thigh with one hand, reaching down with the other to stroke Stiles’ cock. 

Stiles made a choked-off noise and his ass clenched around Derek hard as he folded forward, catching himself by pressing his hands onto Derek’s chest, rubbing his nipples hard enough that Derek’s cock jerked and his balls tightened. 

“Stiles,” he croaked, again, and Stiles moaned, long and low, his cock hardening somehow in Derek’s grip, and then Stiles came, gasping and whining as Derek milked him for all he was worth. 

And then Stiles’ ass really clamped down around Derek’s cock, and Derek couldn’t have stopped himself from coming if he’d wanted to. 

Derek’s fingers curled into Stiles’ thigh and he managed to let go of Stiles’ cock as he came, shooting deep into Stiles’ ass, just like Stiles had talked about wanting. 

God, he hoped Stiles hadn’t been joking or exaggerating. 

Derek panted, his breath coming hard and heavy as Stiles slumped down on top of him—Derek’s cock still inside his hole. 

Derek basked in the feel of Stiles on top of him, weight heavy and there. 

“So,” Stiles said, some length of time later—his voice right next to Derek’s ear but loud enough that Derek could’ve heard him ten feet away. “Did you have any ideas about where we might go?” 

Derek couldn’t do anything but smile and pull Stiles closer to him. After a moment, he offered an “I’ll text you?”

“I don’t have your number,” Stiles reminded him, and Derek grinned, fingers pressing into Stiles’ shoulders—maybe too hard, but Stiles went limp and boneless with a quiet moan. 

“Too much?” Derek whispered. 

Stiles shook his head—nuzzling harder into Derek. “Never too much,” he said, voice soft. 


	3. Chapter 3

The suit was tight on Derek’s shoulders—or maybe that was the scars pulling at his skin, because, despite everything, he wouldn’t—he couldn’t get those goddamn massages that they kept recommending, but. Either way. 

His shoulders were stiff and tense, and nothing was helping. 

The only redeeming factor was that he was mostly sure he looked okay enough to belong at the restaurant he’d booked. Or, failing that, that he’d look at least sort of… reasonable there. Like he had enough wealth to throw at anybody who looked at him funny for too long that maybe nobody would. 

Either way, though, it wouldn’t really make much of a difference if Stiles wasn’t happy with it. Comfortable. 

He’d almost definitely already made too many mistakes on this fucking date, and they weren’t even on the date yet. 

They were still—Derek was still outside the restaurant. Stiles was inside, wearing a too-big suit jacket and dark jeans—not even black—like he’d been expecting burgers at a cheap diner. And hell, maybe he had been. Maybe Derek had already fucked this up. Because, seriously, the jacket—that looked borrowed. It didn’t fit Stiles even a little, and… well. 

Derek couldn’t just stay out there forever, though, so he forced himself to push his nerves back and give this a shot. He’d lose Stiles either way, right? At least this way, he’d get dinner with him. And Stiles was— Well, Stiles was an asshole, but he wasn’t genuinely a mean person. 

Stiles wouldn’t make him feel too awful about every way that he’d fucked up and gone wrong already. Even though it had been… not long at all. They’d barely begun. 

Derek pulled the door open and flashed a nervous smile at Stiles, who lit up like the sun when Derek walked in. 

“Is that the other member of your party, sir?” the maître d’ asked and Stiles nodded enthusiastically, grinning just as brightly as he’d been a moment earlier. 

“Yeah. Yeah. That’s him. I bet you’re pretty surprised I could pull a hot piece of tail like that, huh?” 

The maître d’ flushed, but Stiles just grinned brighter. 

Derek wasn’t completely sure whether Stiles knew that he was fully audible to him, but he realized, very abruptly, that he didn’t really mind either way. Either he was getting a look into who Stiles was as a person or he was getting to listen to Stiles gloat and show him off, and that… that was dizzying. In the best possible way. 

It was a little perfect, no matter what Stiles’ intent was. 

“Hi,” Derek said, voice rasping, and he cleared his throat. “Sorry, um. It’s under Hale.” 

The maître d’ nodded. “Of course, sir,” he said. “You reserved a private table, correct? Allow me to show you where—”

“A private room,” Derek corrected, his words almost breaking. He tried not to blush as Stiles turned to him, eyes wide even in Derek’s periphery. 

“I— Yes. My apologies, sir.” 

With that, the maître d’ nodded and turned away—but not before looking vaguely irritated, glancing at Stiles like he was jealous. 

God, Derek was jealous of his own damn self—he couldn’t imagine how it might be for the poor fucking—

“That guy,” Stiles whispered, “was totally checking you out.” 

Derek’s steps stuttered as he blushed furiously. “I—I— No. No, I— No.” 

Stiles nudged him with his elbow, the too-big suit jacket wrinkling. 

“Take that off,” Derek blurted. 

Stiles glanced at him, frowning adorably—and his pace didn’t even falter. Not for a heartbeat. “How much?” he asked, winking. 

Derek swallowed. “The— The jacket, Stiles.” 

“Just checking,” Stiles murmured, but he slipped out of it. 

He looked— 

“You look—” Derek swallowed again, the words getting caught in his throat. 

“I know, right?” Stiles said, grinning at him all over again, and Derek’s heart thumped in his chest as he stared at Stiles, unable to look away. Like a supernova, maybe. Like a building demolition, but Derek wasn’t scared. Not like— 

Okay, yeah. Yeah, Derek was terrified. 

But more than that, he was ready. And that—that had to be the most dangerous part of it all. 

Jesus. 

Derek wanted to say _something_ , but the maître d’ opened the door to their private room—to the small, intimate table with roses and candles and the whole damn nine yards—and his gaze caught on Stiles as his jaw dropped. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles breathed. 

The maître d’ looked like he was having an aneurysm and trying—unsuccessfully—to hide it. 

Derek smiled to the maître d’, a little too sharp and wolf-like, and took the menus from him. “Thank you,” Derek said. Dismissing him. 

He— Stiles was out of his league. He didn’t want competition, especially not from somebody as handsome as the maître d’. 

Then again, even the maître d’ was leagues beneath Stiles, but… Stiles was going out with Derek. 

They were on a date. 

It hit him all over again and Derek set the menus down and pulled out a chair for Stiles. 

Stiles flushed, his mole-speckled cheeks flushing a beautiful, perfect rosy red, and Derek swallowed back everything he wanted to say. 

Things that would make him sound like a serial killer—”Your skin’s beautiful in the candlelight.” Things that would make him sound like he wanted to wear Stiles’ skin, not—not sound like he wanted to wear Stiles’ hole wrapped tight around his—

Derek cleared his throat, smiling awkwardly as he pushed Stiles’ chair in. 

“You look weird,” Stiles said. “Like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Smiling. No, don’t— Don’t take it the wrong way, I just meant— It looked forced. That’s— That’s all. I swear. Um.” Stiles looked down, pulling his lip between his teeth and letting it go. 

Not fast enough for Derek’s brain to not get caught on how perfect that looked. On how perfect Stiles looked. 

“I’m—” Derek broke off and stared intently down at the menu. “I’m sorry if this was— If you were expecting something, um, more comfortable. Less… this.”

“No, dude, I— Derek, this is fucking awesome, okay?” Stiles’ menu flipped around and Derek looked up, startled, as Stiles somehow put it directly over a candle and didn’t catch the damn thing on fire. “Tell you what,” Stiles said, scanning over his menu, “order the—holy shit, they’ve got a fucking shrimp platter? With garlic? Oh, my— Order me that. No garlic, okay? God, I love garlic. And I’m gonna blow you. Got it?” 

Derek stared, unable to even really blink. “You— You’re serious.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Um. Yeah. Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Why— If you want garlic, then—”

“Nope, see,” Stiles said, setting the menu down and adjusting his dark red flannel—which somehow worked beautifully on him—over his black T-shirt, “I wanna make out with you. Like, all night. And you’re not gonna want to do that if I taste like garlic. I mean, seriously.” 

Derek blushed. He didn’t think he’d mind, honestly. He didn’t think he’d even mind if Stiles gargled with nothing but garlic for four hours before kissing him, as long as it was Stiles. 

He kept his mouth shut, though, as Stiles waggled his eyebrows and slipped down in a bizarrely graceful move, underneath the tablecloth and the table and then hands were pressing on each of Derek’s thighs and Derek was immensely grateful that these were nice tables with four legs and not one little skinny leg in the center. 

Stiles’ hands ran up Derek’s thighs to the waistband of his slacks and he swallowed hard around nothing as Stiles’ fingers hooked into the material, tugging at it in a distinctly pleasant way. 

“Stiles,” he whispered, looking at the menu like it would stop him from coming in his pants before Stiles even tried to take his cock out. 

Stiles made a soft noise under the tablecloth and Derek’s heart thumped as the waiter came in, smiling and then sneering slightly. Almost smirking. 

If Derek could hear Stiles do that, then—

Derek coughed into his fist, hard, as Stiles unzipped his slacks and pulled his boxer briefs open, tugging his cock through the opening, then his balls. 

Leaving him covered except for his cock and balls. 

It shouldn’t have been so hot, but none of this should have been. 

“What can I get for you tonight?” the waiter asked, and Derek tried to remember how speaking worked. 

“Um,” he said. “The shrimp plat- _ter_.” Stiles lapped one long, slow line up Derek’s cock and then pulled away, letting him speak again. “No garlic. None. None at—at all.” 

The waiter nodded, scribbling and obviously waiting for him to continue. 

“What—what would you recommend as an entrée with that?” Derek tried, scrambling to find something on the menu that could get him out of this faster—that could get the waiter out before Stiles started really—

Derek choked on thin air as Stiles practically threw himself down onto Derek’s cock, swallowing him down and pressing his lips into Derek’s pubic hair at the very base of his cock. 

“You know what,” Derek said, voice thin in a way that he could never remember it being before in his life, “maybe I’ll just get whatever the chef recommends.” 

“Actually,” the waiter said, and Derek was going to cry because Stiles was swallowing. 

A breath. A heartbeat. 

Swallow. 

Oh, god. Oh, god, Derek wouldn’t make it through the next five minutes. 

“The chef has three different recommendations for the shrimp platter, including four varieties of wine that pair well with all the—”

“The second one,” Derek said. “Both of us, the—the second one.” 

The waiter frowned at him slightly but nodded, one side of his lip curling a little too high as he smiled to be genuinely pleasant. 

“Of course, sir,” the waiter said, and Stiles gave an almighty suck that had Derek almost whimpering and both of his legs twitching, pressing the balls of his feet into the ground. Had Stiles’ hands not been tight and heavy on his thighs, Derek would’ve bumped the table. “It’ll be out soon. Please, let me know if you need something in the meantime.”

Derek grunted, nodding. 

He prayed it sounded less erotic and more affirmative, but the waiter was already leaving and Derek was sinking back into his chair, boneless despite not having come yet. 

Stiles drew off his cock with a lewd pop. “Good, right?” he asked.

Derek slipped a hand down underneath the table and ran his fingers through Stiles’ hair. He didn’t think it was a good idea to allow himself to say even a word, or else he’d probably never be able to _stop_. 

Stiles’ hand pressed on top of Derek’s own, tightening Derek’s fingers in Stiles’ hair manually, and Derek shuddered as Stiles wormed his hands up Derek’s thighs to his hips. 

“Can—can I?” Derek whispered, barely breathing. 

Stiles tugged Derek’s hips forward, into his mouth, and Derek sobbed out a mortifyingly throaty moan as his cock hit the back of Stiles’ throat. 

It was better than the last time they’d done this. Derek didn’t know if it was because it was in public or if it was from something else altogether, but… but he didn’t care. It was good, and that was all that really mattered. 

Derek leaned on the table with his free hand, once again grateful for its sturdiness, and, watching the door sharply, fucked into Stiles’ mouth, relishing every moan and wet suck and gag Stiles made around his cock. 

Stiles’ grip on his hand loosened, and Derek stopped, pulling out of Stiles’ mouth. 

“I think,” Stiles said, and Derek shuddered, balls tightening at the sound of his voice, “you’d like to get walked in on.” 

Derek froze. 

His cock pulsed. 

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered, and licked at Derek’s cockhead, tongue wet and velvet-soft. “I think you like the idea that somebody’s gonna walk in and see you getting off at dinner. How desperate you are.” 

There was some loud, high whining. Desperate. 

Was Stiles—

“Yeah, Der,” Stiles murmured, and Derek’s eyes widened. 

_Derek_ was whining like he was in pain. 

“You wanna come on my face?” Stiles asked, and Derek shuddered. “Yeah? Yeah, I think you’d like that. Rub your come into my skin, mark me up. Claim me as yours. I’ll let you. I think I’d like it.” 

Stiles’ hand wrapped around Derek’s cock and he jerked him in earnest, the very tip of Derek’s cock brushing against Stiles’ lips, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his forehead—his fucking closed eyelid, the lashes—

Derek shoved his free hand into his mouth and bit down on his knuckles, trying to stop the moan before it could even start as his muscles tensed up hard. He was so fucking close. He was—

“Picture it,” Stiles whispered, his hand flying over Derek’s cock, “somebody hears you moaning like that and they know, and they walk in, through that door, and see you right as you come all—” Derek came— “over me. Yeah. Yeah, there you go.” Stiles took Derek’s cock back into his mouth, just a little past the head, and fucking suckled on him. He didn’t swallow Derek’s come, though, which was easily fine. It was— This was already worlds better than he could’ve ever dreamed. Could’ve ever hoped or imagined. 

Derek slowly sat back down in his chair and fumbled with his softening, spit-covered cock as Stiles, smiling close-mouthed, crawled out from under the table. 

He couldn’t have— Stiles wouldn’t have—

Stiles climbed into Derek’s lap and seemed to hesitate for a moment before tipping his chin up with a slight frown. “Is come-feeding a limit?” 

Derek stared, mouth falling open as he shook his head. It wasn’t. It wasn’t a limit at all. 

Stiles cupped his face and kissed him, and Derek’s mouth opened right up for him without him even thinking about it. 

Stiles slipped his tongue into Derek’s mouth, covered with his come, and Derek groaned. It wasn’t that it was his thing; it was that it was Stiles doing it. 

God, maybe Derek’s thing was just _Stiles_. 

Stiles only kissed him for a moment longer, licking into his mouth before drawing back and visibly swallowing. He grinned and pecked Derek gently. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Couldn’t really resist.” 

If it had been physically possible, Derek would’ve been fully erect and inside of Stiles—but even though it wasn’t, it was still perfect. 

Stiles didn’t— Things hadn’t gone bad. 

_Yet,_ he reminded himself, and let Stiles get off his lap and into his own seat. 

“Do you— I— You didn’t come,” Derek said stupidly. 

Stiles grinned. “Who says?” 

Derek’s eyes went wide and he could feel his nostrils flare as he flushed with arousal. 

Stiles’ grin deepened. “You wanna—”

“Your dinners, sirs,” the waiter called out and Derek jerked, the moment broken faster than the little blown-glass bird he’d found in that weird little store, completely fallen in love with, and dropped in a matter of thirty seconds. 

He broke everything. He ruined everything. If he’d just—

_Stop it._

Stiles, to his credit, didn’t look more than a bit flushed. Like he just had particularly rosy cheeks. 

God, what Derek wouldn’t give for Stiles’ other cheeks to get a little—

Derek blinked at his food. “And this is….”

“Burrata salad with stone fruit and asparagus,” the waiter said, setting Stiles’ plate in front of him. 

Stiles coughed into his hand. 

Behind his fist, though, he was smirking. 

“Oh,” Derek said, blinking down at the food. “I— Thank you.” 

The waiter nodded. “I’ll be back to take your plates and your dessert orders later.” 

With that, the waiter swept out of the room and left them in complete silence. 

“So,” Stiles said, and reached out to grab a shrimp off the platter, “option number two.” 

“Shut up,” Derek growled, but he couldn’t put any real anger or heat behind it. 

Stiles burst out laughing and bit into the shrimp, chewing with his mouth open. It was absolutely disgusting. 

And Derek absolutely didn’t mind. 

###

Stiles leaned back in his seat, resting a hand on his belly with a moan. “Jesus,” he groaned, and Derek’s cock did not twitch valiantly. “I don’t think I can eat anything. Ever again.” 

The waiter came sweeping in. “Can I get either of you anything for dessert?” 

Derek smiled a little to himself. “Actually—”

“Holy shit, you’ve got a _monster cookie_? What’s that?” 

Derek frowned and leaned over to where Stiles was looking at the menu. 

“Well, that’s on the children’s menu,” the waiter said, “so—”

Derek shot the waiter a sharp look. 

“But I’m sure we can get that for you. And for you, sir?” 

Stiles grinned at Derek, closing the menu. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom. You’d better get something exciting to try.” Stiles winked at him as he stood, tucked his phone into his pocket, and left the private room. 

Derek couldn’t look away until the door had shut. 

“Is the chocolate—”

“Definitely getting your money’s worth on his class, aren’t you?” the waiter said, smirking. 

The smile fell off of Derek’s face. “What?” he croaked. 

“Oh, I’m just— It’s none of my business, I’m sure, but I’d think you could find somebody a little… classier for just a few hundred more, couldn’t you?” 

Derek swallowed, dry. Again. His throat clicked as he tried to speak. 

“Might I recommend the chocolate lava cakes? They’re—”

“Sure,” Derek whispered, hollow. 

The waiter took the menus and left Derek alone. 

Of course. Of course, Stiles was— Stiles was expecting something from him. Something more. 

Oh. So—so that was the catch. 

Derek swallowed, staring down at his plate. Well, it was—it was better to know now than to not realize until the end of the date when Stiles expected something in return and—and Derek didn’t even think of it. 

How hadn’t he realized?

His stomach clenched, and Derek picked up the glass of ice water. It was shaking. 

Or—or his hand was. 

It wasn’t his hand. It wasn’t the hand he was supposed to have, it was—the scars were just covering up his hand, and—and it was right underneath, it—

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles said, grinning so broadly that it startled him. 

Derek took a steadying sip of water. 

It steadied exactly nothing. 

“Hi,” Derek rasped, unable to look at him for longer than a few seconds at a time. 

“Are you okay? You’re acting a little—”

“One monster cookie,” the waiter said, setting a small pan down in front of Stiles, “and chocolate lava cakes.” 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, grinning up at the waiter. 

Derek’s heart stopped. 

“Excuse me,” Derek choked out, shoving back from the table and heading for the bathrooms, brushing past the waiter in his haste. 

Goddamn it. Goddamn it, he was so—so fucking stupid. 

If he’d been more careful, then—then—

Derek ducked into the men’s room and locked himself in the stall at the very end. 

He could do this, right? He could pretend to be a person for the rest of this and then—and then just apologize to Stiles, pay him whatever he wanted, and—

And he needed to talk to somebody. He needed to talk to Erica—she—she knew he was out here in the first place, so—

Derek pulled out his phone, thumbs clumsy and cotton-filled as he tried to scan his touch ID. 

She’d know what to do, right? She had to. 

She had to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I want to say a quick couple things about this chapter. 
> 
> First, it was written a couple weeks ago and I’m setting it in an AU of our present-day world—no COVID-19, no pandemic. Obviously, _do not_ go to crowded places like restaurants and movie theaters. Since nobody knows what the long-term consequences of COVID-19 are on recovered patients, it’s not just elderly people and those with preexisting conditions that are at risk—everybody is, especially if healthcare systems get overloaded. 
> 
> Second, I have chapter 4 fully drafted at about 5k right now. I’m thinking of making some significant revisions and edits, so I’m planning on posting it on Monday of next week (3/23/2020). 
> 
> And finally, more than 50 people have subscribed to this story, so I hope you guys are enjoying it. Thank you to everybody who’s subscribed, left kudos, and commented. I really appreciate you guys :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warning in end notes (contains spoiler).

With shaking fingers, Derek tapped on Erica’s texts with him. 

>> I fucked up. 

<< That could mean a lot of things, Der.

>> I’m ending this early. I fucked up.

<< so help me GOD Derek Hale if you don’t finish this out I will cover your fucking leather jacket in pink LEAD PAINT and BURN IT

<< WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU

<< IN THE FUCKIGN BATHROOM???????

<< DUMBASS GO TALK TO HIM

Derek stared down at the screen as Erica continued to bombard him with texts. He suspected that she was using her Bluetooth keyboard—which she usually used for her computer—and had switched it over so she could text him even more rapid-fire. 

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the virtual letters. 

>> Fine.

>> Don’t touch my jacket. 

It wasn’t— Okay, so it wasn’t what he’d been hoping that—that she’d say something reassuring, but— 

Then again, Derek didn’t want to confess how stupid he’d been, thinking Stiles wanted him and not just a paycheck. 

Or—or cash? He didn’t exactly know how these things were supposed to go. 

Stiles probably thought he did, though. 

<< ARE YOU STILL IN THE FUCKING BATHROOM DEREK HALE

>> I’m going.

Derek gritted his teeth and muted the ringer before stuffing his phone in his pocket. 

It didn’t matter. It would— It would be fine. It would just be a onetime thing, or—

He didn’t know. He didn’t know, maybe—

Derek forced himself to leave the bathroom stall and head back to the private room he’d booked with Stiles, which— Jesus. He’d been so fucking obvious. It wasn’t romantic to book a private fucking room; it was just like at the fucking strip club. It wasn’t candles and roses, it was—

Metal clattered—Stiles had dropped his fork. “Are you okay?” Stiles asked. 

Derek’s steps faltered. “Fine,” he croaked, trying to smile. “Just, um. Just had a misunderstanding with somebody, it’s—”

“So you had to go to the bathroom?” 

“It, um. It was an urgent, um. Misunderstanding. With a friend.” Derek sat down heavily, swallowing as he nodded. “That’s all.” 

Derek stared down at his lava cakes, frowning. “Are you not hungry?” he asked, refusing to look at Stiles. 

Stiles shrugged out of his periphery. “Not as good as I’d hoped. But I mean, if you want to go see that movie, there’s always candy there. And, you know, movie theater candy is like five and a half times better than normal candy.” 

Derek smiled despite himself, glancing up to meet his gaze. “Really?” 

Stiles scoffed. “Please! Everybody knows it. It’s an experience, Der. Ooh, plus, we could get a popcorn bucket.” Stiles waggled his eyebrows in a way that should have been nothing other than completely ridiculous. 

(It was ridiculous, definitely, it was just that it was also… kind of hot.)

(God, what was Derek’s life coming to that Stiles wiggling his eyebrows was erotic?)

“Why the popcorn bucket?” Derek bit back a smile. 

“I think you know why, Derek,” Stiles said, licking his lips—and not even in a way that looked purposeful, just in a way that looked like he felt like his lips were actually dry. 

Not like he was trying to arouse Derek, but like he was aroused himself. 

Derek realized with a sinking feeling that, while Stiles had sucked Derek off, Derek hadn’t had the chance to return the favor. 

Shit. 

“So,” Stiles said, standing and leaning on the back of his chair, “how about that movie?”

“Yeah, of—of course,” Derek said, standing, too, and pushing his chair in. “Are you sure you’re good?” 

Stiles’ gaze went a little soft around the edges, and Derek had to fight back—something. 

Something he knew, something he could name, something—something he didn’t want to think about. 

Abruptly, Derek realized that, if he’d been in Harry Potter, he wouldn’t have been like Dumbledore, ready to say “Voldemort” at a moment’s notice. He would’ve been a coward there, too, just like the real world. 

It would always be “He Who Must Not Be Named.” 

Stiles reached out and took Derek’s hand in his, and Derek’s heart thumped hard. “Movie? I’m pretty sure they’re showing some action movie. Or a romantic comedy. Or a horror movie.” 

“That’s pretty much all the movies they ever show,” Derek said, somehow able to speak when Stiles was squeezing his hand and gently pulling him towards the door. 

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, well— Play the odds, right?” 

Right. Right, it— He needed to play the odds. Or—or at least be aware of them. 

And what were really the odds that Stiles wanted him? 

###

The movie theater wasn’t as busy as Derek had feared, but there were still a couple dozen people buying tickets and snacks and drinks and Derek gritted his teeth as he tried not to cling to Stiles like he was some scared koala bear. 

Stiles took a step closer to him, anyway. 

“So,” Stiles said, resting a hand on the small of Derek’s back, “what do you think? They’ve got some Hunger Games ripoff, a couple horror movies…. Oh, cool, they’ve got Birds of Prey. That’s supposed to be good, but I think it—”

“Let’s see that.” 

Stiles glanced to him and Derek tried not to tense up under his gaze, assessing him so sharply, so obviously that Derek could barely breathe. 

“I was gonna say,” Stiles said, soft as he leaned still closer to Derek, “that I heard it has some weird shit in it. Let’s see that one, The Gentlemen.”

Derek nodded, trying to stop grinding his teeth as he felt somebody’s gaze pass over him. 

Stiles let go of his back and Derek tensed up for all of one moment before Stiles took his hand and squeezed it. 

Derek stared down at their hands and almost walked into somebody. 

“Sorry,” Derek rasped, ducking out of their way and after Stiles, who was grinning at him. “What?” 

“You’re just cute. That’s all. But, I mean, you already knew that.” Stiles stepped up to the ticket counter. “Two for The Gentlemen. That’s at, what….”

“In eighteen minutes,” the woman said, smiling. “I like your tattoos.” 

Derek’s eyes went wide. They were— They— 

“Thank you?” he tried, gripping Stiles’ hand tight as he waited for her to deliver the punchline. 

“It’s in theater four,” she said, handing Stiles their tickets. 

“So,” Stiles said, handing Derek his ticket, “I think we need to get an extra-large popcorn bucket. Don’t you?” 

Derek fought back a smile as they got in line for the concessions stand. 

God, it had been forever since Derek had gone to a movie theater. It must’ve been when Laura was still—

Stiles’ hand squeezed tight around his and Derek sucked in a breath he’d forgotten to take. 

“In all seriousness,” Stiles said as they moved up, “I think we should split a drink and get, like, a small popcorn. Did I ever tell you about the time when I was a kid and I went to the movie theater and I saw this guy sitting on a bench holding a bucket of soda? There was a lid and everything.” 

Derek frowned to himself. “Is it possible,” he said, “that he was just drinking a large soda, and you were… a kid?” 

Stiles waved a hand dismissively. “If I saw the same guy now, he’d still be holding a bucket. It wasn’t in relation to my height, see, it was his.” 

Derek nodded seriously. “Absolutely. Could it have just been a short man?”

Stiles hesitated even as the next people in line moved up to buy their food and Derek tugged him forward, smirking at the furrow between his brows. “I guess,” Stiles said faintly, frowning more deeply still. “Jesus, I— Huh. Yeah. Yeah, it was just a big soda. Dammit, Derek, that was my one good movie theater story.” 

Derek grinned until the concession stand worker called out, “Next!” and then the smile fell off. 

He couldn’t hear another joke about how he looked like the fucking Joker when he—

“One small popcorn,” Stiles was saying, leaning against the glass of the candy counter in a way that seemed distinctly unsanitary and distinctly like he might break it, “oh, shit, and a Reese’s thing. The peanut butter cups— Holy shit, you’ve got the minis? Dude, let’s get those. Derek, what do you want to drink?” 

Derek stared down at Stiles, somehow struck dumb. “Um,” he said. 

“Coke?” Stiles offered after a beat. “They’ve got diet, too, in case your muscles need to—”

“Diet sodas are terrible for your health, Stiles,” Derek said—too confrontationally. 

Stiles grinned at him. “So… you can’t stand the taste, right?” 

Derek’s lips thinned. Damn it. 

Stiles squeezed his hand tight. “And a small Coke. Not diet.” 

###

Derek had forgotten something important about movie theaters—when they said that a movie started in twenty minutes, they meant the previews started in twenty minutes. And then the trailers started in forty. And then the movie started in more like an hour. 

And god help him, Derek couldn’t understand why “previews” and “trailers” were separated out, but as best as he could figure, it was code for “commercials” and “actual movie trailers.” 

Which made less than no sense to Derek, but apparently, to Stiles, was fine. 

Stiles had also finished his candy before the trailers even started. 

“How did you know?” Derek asked quietly, tapping the lid of the Coke. 

Stiles shoved another handful of popcorn into his mouth, his fingers oily in the dim light. “What,” he said, “that you don’t like Diet Coke?” 

Derek nodded. 

“Lucky guess?” Stiles winked. “No, seriously, it’s just that you don’t like over-sweet stuff. I mean, like, I love cosmos, but you liked that honey whiskey. You don’t like marshmallow cookies like you made me the other day, but you like _coffee cake_ , which is just sweet-ish bread. With cinnamon, which kind of overshadows the sweetness. So you like sugar,” Stiles said, “but you don’t like fake sugar. Too sweet. Over-sweet.” 

Derek stared at him. 

“What?” Stiles asked, picking up the Coke and chasing the straw with his tongue in a way that might have made the bag of popcorn rise a little in Derek’s lap. 

Stiles eyed the popcorn and snorted as he finally caught the straw in his mouth. “Am I wrong?” he asked, licking his lips. 

“No, it’s—” Derek swallowed, adjusting the popcorn as he blushed. “You’re—you’re right.” 

Stiles grinned and leaned close to his ear, breath warm and peanut-butter scented as it ghosted over Derek’s skin. “When the lights finally start dimming, you might want to finish off your popcorn.” 

Derek stared at him as he pulled away, and, as Stiles remained completely earnest, he grabbed a handful of popcorn and shoved it into his mouth. 

Stiles reached over, his long fingers reaching blindly into the popcorn bag. Like it was purposeful, though, like—like Stiles wanted an excuse to—

Derek swallowed what was in his mouth, half-chewed though it was, and winced as it scraped down his throat, too dry.

Fuck. Fuck, he wouldn’t make it through the fucking previews, much less the goddamn trailers. 

God, Derek was glad they were in the back row. 

They kept eating popcorn, although it slowed down towards the end of the bag—even though the trailers were starting and the lights were dimming. Derek had assumed that, when that happened, he’d be inhaling the bag just to get it out of the way, but his mouth was growing dry, his heart was thumping harder and harder, and his palms were getting sweatier. 

Stiles’ hand landed hot and heavy on Derek’s cock through his pants, and he tried not to jump—mostly succeeding. 

“Shh,” Stiles whispered, right into his ear but barely audible as the trailers thundered in the theater. 

He was hard and growing harder as Stiles unbuttoned his pants and pulled his zipper down, adjusting the fabric so it framed his cock. 

Thank god for back rows. 

He shivered as Stiles’ hand ghosted down his cock, rubbing so lightly and faintly that it was almost possible to forget that any of this was happening. 

Almost. 

“Gorgeous for me, baby,” Stiles whispered, soft, and every muscle in Derek’s body tensed. “Yeah? You like that?” 

_No._

Derek sucked in a sharp breath, digging his nails into the armrest. No, no, no, he didn’t—he didn’t like it. 

_No no_ —

Stiles slid his hand under Derek’s waistband and took hold of his cock, and Derek stopped breathing. 

Oh, god. Oh, god, oh— Shit. Shit, shit— 

Play the odds, right? Right? If—

Derek sucked in another gasp as Stiles squeezed him tighter, rubbing his thumb along Derek’s slit. 

“God, baby,” Stiles said, and Derek whimpered, shivering. 

He wished he’d brought a jacket. A coat. A blanket, a—a—

He wasn’t going to come. He wasn’t going to be able to come and—and—oh, god. 

Precome dripped down his cock and while Stiles used it to slick the way immediately, he could still remember the way she used to scratch her nails up, picking up his precome and smearing it onto his—

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t—

He could distract him. Derek could figure this out, he could—he could distract Stiles, get him focused on something else. 

It was Stiles, it wasn’t—it wasn’t her, but god, if Stiles called him that one more time—

“Ba—”

Derek kissed him, eyes open with his haste before he remembered to shut them. He grappled at Stiles’ jeans, unbuttoning them and pulling out his cock. He started jerking him, fast and hard. 

Stiles’ head tipped back and he let out a tiny, stifled moan. “God, Der,” he whispered. “You keep that up, baby, I’m gonna come.” 

Derek gulped. Okay, he— More, then. More. That—that was okay, Stiles would be happy then and he wouldn’t have to worry about Stiles hating him or wanting him gone or—

He took a deep breath, leaned over, and sucked Stiles’ cock into his mouth. 

Stiles’ hips fucked up and Derek almost gagged as Stiles’ cock hit the back of his throat. 

He could do this. He could make Stiles happy, make him feel good. And—and maybe later, if Stiles still wanted him, somehow, then Derek would mention that “baby” wasn’t… wasn’t good. 

Derek swallowed and Stiles’ fingers worked their way through his hair and Derek went limp, barely able to keep his head bobbing on Stiles’ cock. He let out a heavy sigh and tried not to smile so stupidly blissful around Stiles. 

She’d never do this, stroke his hair like he was something precious. Cradle his head like he was—like he—

Derek’s eyes fell shut, and he could feel his mouth opening wider, looser, could feel the way spit dripped out from his lips and down Stiles’ cock. 

“Derek,” Stiles whispered, and god wasn’t that the most beautiful thing Derek had ever heard in his life, “I’m gonna— I’m close. Pull off, okay? I wanna—wanna see you.” 

Derek let Stiles guide his head, his mouth, up and off him. 

He smiled at Stiles, who shivered, full-body. “Derek,” Stiles whispered, again. 

Derek picked the bag of popcorn up off the floor and brought it up, with popcorn still in it, to Stiles’ cock. With his other hand, he started jerking Stiles again. 

Stiles watched him until Derek blushed and looked away, and then Stiles pressed a hand to his jaw. “I said I wanted to see you,” Stiles murmured, and Derek’s hand tightened around the popcorn bag and Stiles’ cock, and then Stiles crumpled forward, lips pressing tight together, and Derek looked to his cock as he came, shooting come into the bag, onto the popcorn. 

Stiles limply batted at his hand after a moment and Derek eased his grip, slowed down, let go. 

“Okay?” Derek asked, soft. Whatever Stiles said, he’d have to accept, so—

“Perfect,” Stiles murmured. He reached down and tucked himself back into his underwear and zipped his jeans back up. 

Derek watched him until Stiles made a face and smirked at him a little. “Sorry,” Derek said. 

Stiles shook his head and took the bag of popcorn and come from him, resting it in his lap. “Like I said,” Stiles glanced at the popcorn and pulled out a piece soaked with his come, and he shrugged, “perfect.” 

He moved to toss it into his mouth, but Derek grabbed his wrist at the last second. 

“What?” Stiles whispered, face lighting with something unreadable. 

Derek opened his mouth, and Stiles’ eyes widened. 

“You— Really? Jesus, Der, that’s pretty kinky.” 

Derek rolled his eyes and took the piece of popcorn with his teeth, right from Stiles’ fingers. 

Stiles made a soft noise and ran his fingers through Derek’s hair again, sending him floating all over again. 

Stiles murmured something as Derek drifted, leaning against Stiles, Stiles’ hand in his hair, the movie loud and deafening but the soft cotton in place of his eardrums muting it. Softening the blow. 

Maybe he hadn’t been sure, but he liked his odds. He liked _their_ odds. 

###

“So,” Stiles said, wadding up the popcorn bag and stuffing it deep into the theater trash can. “What did you think?” 

Derek hadn’t been exactly paying attention to the movie. “It was nice,” he settled on. 

Stiles grinned at him. “You’d want to do it again?” 

“Oh, you mean— The date?” 

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, Der, the date. Good? Awful? Bad, but you want to try again? So bad you never want to see me again?” 

“It was,” Derek said, hesitating for just a moment to watch Stiles’ face do a complicated dance as they headed into the theater lobby. “Perfect.” 

No, it wasn’t, not really, but Stiles was perfect. It was Derek that hadn’t been, so—so he’d just be more careful next time. Maybe somewhere more secluded, or—

“Good,” Stiles said, almost twitching out of his skin as he smiled. 

“You look like you’re doing the bathroom dance,” Derek muttered, flushing as Stiles turned to him, pausing with his mouth open. 

“Derek!” he cried. “That was almost a joke!” 

Derek rolled his eyes. “I make jokes all the—”

“Stilinski,” a voice called out and Derek jumped back, tensing up as he gripped Stiles tighter, forcing him to back up, too, or get walked into. 

“It’s fine,” Stiles said, voice low and warm in his ear. “It’s just Jack’s— Jack’s son. Um. Colton.” 

Derek turned to glance at him and then back at the man as he kept approaching. 

“Stilinski,” Colton said, “what the hell are you—”

“Hey, Colton!” Stiles said, stepping to Derek’s side. “This is Derek. Derek, this is Jack’s son, Colton.” 

Derek blinked at him, glancing rapidly between Stiles and Colton, unsure what to make of it. 

Colton’s sharp jawline grew sharper still, and his lips twisted into an irritated grimace. “You’re joking.” 

“You are Jack’s _son_ ,” Stiles said, weirdly meaningful. 

Colton glanced at Derek, wrinkled his nose, then looked back to Stiles. “I need to talk with you.” 

“It can wait.” 

It hit him all at once. They’d—they’d dated. 

God, he was an idiot. This was who Stiles went for when it wasn’t— 

Fuck the fucking odds, Derek already knew he was an idiot. 

“Um,” Derek said, and cleared his throat. “I. Um. It’s nice to—to meet you.” He let go of Stiles and offered his hand to Colton. 

Colton looked at his hand—the scars on it—and huffed, rolling his eyes. “I’ll call you tonight, Stilinski.” 

“Bye, Colton,” Stiles said, taking Derek’s hand and tugging him towards the doors. “Give my best to Jack.” 

Derek finally broke eye contact with Colton and followed Stiles into the parking lot where Derek’s Camaro was. 

“Can I drive you home?” Derek asked. 

Stiles turned to look at him, his grip on Derek’s hand loosening. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely, I’d—I’d love that. My car’s in the shop. Again.”

“I could look at it,” Derek offered and wanted to kick himself. He was just like the same stupid eighth-grader running after Paige, convinced that if he tutored her, she’d fall madly in love with him. He was just like the same stupid sophomore running after Kate, certain that if he proved his worth, his abilities, then she’d want to stay with him. 

“You don’t have to,” Stiles said, and Derek didn’t know if that weird feeling in his stomach was the popcorn, disappointment, or relief. 

Maybe all of it. 

“Seriously, my car’s a hunk of crap. I keep trying to save up for a better one, but, you know. Cars are expensive.” 

And just like that, the odds tipped all back over to yes, Stiles was doing this for money. Not for Derek. 

“Yeah,” Derek said faintly, unlocking the passenger-side door and holding it for Stiles who blushed as he got in. And now— Oh, god, he was acting like he was a fucking _chauffeur_.

What the fuck was wrong with him? 

No, best—best not to go down that road. 

Derek closed the door and walked around the car to get in the driver’s seat and start the car. 

“Um, feel free to adjust the air, or—or whatever,” Derek said. 

He checked his mirrors and his seat and wheel—old habits never really died—and reached to the gearshift only to freeze at the pill bottles he had in the cup holders. 

Derek’s hand shook as he tried to decide whether to get rid of them or to leave them—which would attract less attention. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Stiles adjusted his seatbelt and Derek swallowed, nodding. 

“Fine. Sorry.” He switched into reverse and started backing out. “What’s your address?” 

“It’s, um, an apartment complex. I can’t ever remember the— I think it’s— It’s in my phone, hold on.” Stiles turned away, full-body, to rummage in his pocket and Derek grabbed the pills—Xanax and Prozac, to make him really look crazy—and threw the bottles into the backseat, wincing only a little as they hit the rear window with a sharp tap, the pills rattling in the bottles. 

It was fine, he’d—he’d find them later. 

He had his checkbook in his car, didn’t he? He didn’t have that much in cash on him, but— Yeah, he had his checkbook. He’d kept it there ever since he’d forgotten his wallet on grocery day and had to drive home to get it and put himself through extra bullshit with people seeing him. He hadn’t had to use it yet, but it was there. 

By the time Stiles had given him the address, and he’d gotten almost the whole way there—he could see the building—he still had no idea how much he was supposed to give Stiles. A thousand? Five? Twenty?

It was a rundown building, particularly so, and Derek tried not to tense up at the idea of letting Stiles go in. 

Stiles wasn’t his property. Wasn’t his at all. 

Derek pulled up into the parking lot and into an empty space. 

“So,” Stiles said, unbuckling, opening the door, hopping out, and turning to him with a wide grin. “Do you—”

“Yeah,” Derek said, nodding awkwardly as he unbuckled his seatbelt and reached over to the glove compartment to pull out his checkbook and a pen. 

Stiles went quiet, obviously waiting for him to write the check. 

With shaking hands, Derek wrote a check for ten thousand dollars and signed it in Stiles’ name. 

“Thank—thank you for, um,” Derek said, “a—a perfect date.” 

He couldn’t quite look at Stiles as he handed him the check. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Yeah, of—of course. Um. I’ll. Um. I have to make sure my cat’s got food, so, um. I’ll.” 

Derek swallowed as Stiles shut the door and headed into the building. 

So it hadn’t been enough. Shit. He’d thought— 

He’d tried. He’d done everything that he could think of, and still—still he’d—

Derek gripped the gearshift hard enough that his knuckles ached and gritted his teeth. Fuck it. Fuck it all, he just— He needed to—

He needed to go home. He’d tried, and he’d failed, and it—it didn’t matter. Whatever. Whatever, right? 

He played the fucking odds, and he lost. He played the odds, and he lost Stiles, so—

Derek turned the radio on, quiet, just enough to try to drown out at least some of his thoughts. If he couldn’t stop thinking about it, he would end up in a car accident, and—and he couldn’t spend any more time at hospitals. Not ever again. Not after Laura, not after Peter, not after—

He couldn’t. 

###

Derek came inside, unlocking the door and throwing it open so hard it hit the wall and dented the fucking drywall. 

“God _damn_ it,” he snarled, grabbing the handle and swinging the door harder still back into its frame. 

“Whoa, Derek,” he heard, and Derek gritted his teeth, jaw tightening. 

“Get the _fuck_ ,” he said, slow and careful—measured as much as he could, “out of my house.” 

“Derek,” Erica said again, like it would change anything. 

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you? You told me to fucking _go after him_?” Derek shouted, walking right up into her space. “What the _fuck_ —”

Boyd’s arm pressed against his chest. “You need to calm down, Derek. Erica, go home.” 

“Derek,” she started. 

“ _GET THE_ —”

Boyd’s arm hooked around Derek’s throat, his other hand on his head, and he kicked the back of Derek’s knee, choking him for a moment before he could get his feet under him again. “Go home.” 

“ _Kill me_ ,” Derek hissed. “Do it. Do it, I fucking dare you. Snap my fucking neck, Boyd. Come on. _Vernon_. Don’t you want to—” The door shut and Boyd let go of him, backing up a half a dozen steps as Derek watched him. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Boyd said, calm as he headed towards Derek’s home gym—deeper into his house. 

Derek stalked after him, rubbing his throat. 

“But you know the deal, Derek. Have you been taking your antidepressants?” 

“It’s not the fucking Prozac,” Derek snapped, but he couldn’t remember taking it for at least a week. He’d filled that prescription days ago and he hadn’t even cracked open the bottle. And he’d been out for days before that. 

“Tell me what happened.” 

Derek gritted his teeth. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“It does.” 

“It _can’t_ ,” Derek snarled. 

“You’re a danger to yourself and others, Derek. We both know that’s more than enough to warrant me calling.” 

“You wouldn’t.” 

Derek stared him down, and then he leaned against the wall, trying not to crumple as much as he wanted to, as much as his body ached for it. “Why did you send Erica home.” 

“You know why.” 

“Tell me anyway.” 

Boyd sighed. “Why did you yell at her?” 

“You already asked your question.” 

“You didn’t answer it.” 

“I fucked up, okay?” It came out in a hot, fast rush, too sharp. “I fucked up, and I don’t— I can’t talk about it.”

“If I leave,” Boyd began carefully, and Derek shook his head. 

“No.” He couldn’t stop himself, not tonight. Not tonight, not after—

“Treadmill,” Boyd ordered. 

Derek gritted his teeth. “I liked the old deal.” 

“The old deal ended up with you in the psych ward for a week.” 

But it had let him function more often than not. It had kept Erica safer. It had kept Isaac safer. It hadn’t helped Boyd as much, but—but it wasn’t that bad. 

It let him be angry long enough to outrun the self-hatred. And he could just collapse, exhausted, bruised, bloody, and he could sleep. 

“It was a bad deal,” Boyd said as Derek stepped onto the treadmill. “Four miles, go.” 

“I’m not running for an hour.” 

“No,” Boyd said, “you’re sprinting to eight miles. Go.” 

Derek could’ve screamed at him, ranted about how this was overstepping boundaries, but it really wasn’t. Boyd never overstepped. And this was something Derek had agreed to—had suggested, had asked for—a few months ago. 

Because this way, he could still exhaust himself. 

God, he was a fucking _idiot_. He—he’d fucking paid Stiles to—

“I paid him,” Derek said, and turned on the treadmill, holding down the Increase Speed button until it hit six miles an hour. Seven. “I fucking _paid him_.” 

“You paid who?” 

Derek shook his head. He couldn’t— He couldn’t admit it. Not yet. Even though Boyd would ask Erica and he was just prolonging the inevitable, even though it would get everybody hurt, it—

Four miles. 

Four miles. 

And he’d start his antidepressants again. 

Four miles.

He’d fix this, and he’d apologize to Erica. 

Four miles. 

He deserved to fucking die. 

Four miles. 

He’d see if Stiles wanted him gone forever or if it had just been temporary or—

Four miles. 

He started running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the date, Derek comes home and screams at Erica, who tries to calm him down. 
> 
> Derek is implied to have previously tried to injure/kill himself.


	5. Chapter 5

In the morning, he still didn’t know what to do. Which he expected, sure, that— 

He’d fucked up. He hadn’t acted like that in… months. He’d been at least mostly stable, mostly rational, mostly reasonable, and not… not like that. 

Derek rolled over. Nine in the morning, but he’d gotten into bed at six. It didn’t really count, either, because he hadn’t slept. Despite his exhaustion, despite everything— 

He hadn’t been able to fall asleep. And it didn’t really matter, because it wasn’t like he deserved it, anyway, but… still. He wanted to. As selfish as it was, all he wanted (not all he wanted, not really) was to sleep in late enough that the sun woke him through the curtains. 

That would require that he didn’t have blackout curtains so he could sleep whether it was four in the morning or the afternoon, but still. It was a nice thought. 

There was really no coming back from this, was there? Any of this. He’d fucked up—he’d gone too far. He hadn’t taken Prozac or Abilify— Hell, the only medication he’d been even a little consistent with had been fucking Xanax. 

That and the beta blockers, anyway. 

Derek doubted that Stiles would even want to see him again after a date like that, after getting reminded that he could have any—

His phone rang. 

Derek sat up, startled, and fumbled for it on the bedside table, frowning deeply at the caller ID reading YOUR FAVORITE!! <3

Who the hell was that? 

He accepted it, and after a brief second, turned it on to speakerphone. “Hello?” he asked, ready to hang up. 

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles’ voice crackled through, and Derek gaped openly at his phone. 

“Did you change your contact name?” 

He could sense the eye roll. “You had me as Stiles, dude. You’ve got to—”

“When did you even have the chance?” And—okay, Derek shouldn’t be acting that confrontationally, not when it was Stiles, and—

Stiles laughed. “That’s for me to know. Um, I just wanted to call, um, and let you know I had a really good time. I’m sorry I kind of ran off at the end there, um.”

“It’s okay,” Derek said, too quick. “My sister had a cat once. I understand.” 

“Oh, yeah, totally, dude. Like, he will scream at me if he doesn’t get his wet food at eleven. But he’s got dry food all day, and— Well, um. Anyway.” 

Derek swallowed. 

“Anyway,” Stiles said again, after a long moment. “You know, I’m working tonight. So maybe—”

“Yes,” Derek said, jumping on it. He could— He could explain, or he could— He could—

“You’d want to—to do that again?” Stiles asked, and Derek could hear the frown. “I mean—”

He could keep Stiles if he just— “I wanted to ask you something,” Derek said, cutting him off before Stiles could tell him that not even thousands of dollars was worth Derek. “It’s a long— Um.”

“Yeah, it is,” Stiles murmured, like it made any sense at all. “Okay, sure, I’ll—I’ll make sure I have some time for you, okay?” 

“Okay,” Derek said, voice rougher than he intended. 

Stiles was quiet for a moment. “I’ll see you tonight, Derek.” 

“See—” The line went dead. “You,” Derek whispered. Uselessly. 

He gritted his teeth. It— There were hours to fill. It was barely past nine in the morning, and— 

It was fine. It had to be. He’d figure something out. 

Besides, he’d fill enough time figuring out how in the fuck he was going to apologize to Erica, because there was no way that a simple “I’m sorry” could ever cut it for that. 

She’d understand, but she shouldn’t have to. None of them—not Boyd, not Isaac, and especially not Erica—should have to put up with him. 

Derek set his phone down on top of his blankets and stood, heading to the shower. He didn’t know what he was doing first, so he might as well get something out of the way. 

Right? 

###

Derek was just finishing frying some bacon when somebody knocked on the door. Every delivery person was instructed to ring the bell, so he’d know that it was somebody he didn’t know, but— 

Oh, god, it was probably Isaac coming to chew him out again. 

Derek pulled the bacon out of the pan and turned the burner off. He still needed to scramble some eggs, anyway. 

He headed to the door, wishing he’d taken his phone out of the bedroom so he could check the Ring, but it was on the other end of the house and he couldn’t leave whoever it was on his porch, even if it was Isaac coming to—

Erica. 

Derek scrambled to unlock the door and let her in, but instead of her rushing in like he expected, she stood there, holding a small white paper bag—it looked like it was from the pharmacy—and two reusable grocery bags. 

“I brought Trader Joe’s,” she said. 

Derek stepped out of her way and took the grocery bags from her, unable to resist glancing inside of them—hummus, pita chips, frozen mozzarella sticks, vanilla ice cream—before he closed and locked the door. 

“Did you want me to cook you something?” he asked, following her into the kitchen where she tore open the paper bag, stapled shut, and pulled out prescriptions. Derek’s prescriptions. 

“You were due for a refill of some stuff,” she said, unloading them one after the other. 

“I haven’t— I haven’t been keeping up with them,” Derek said. He pulled the frozen foods out first and organized them on the counter before starting on the refrigerated items. 

“Not really surprised,” Erica said, voice still soft. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek blurted, looking down at what he’d unloaded as his hands stilled. “For— Do you want me to put these up? Or make anything now? Or—”

“Thought you could bring it to your boyfriend,” she said. She shrugged. 

Derek couldn’t help the frustrated laugh that burst out of him at that. He glanced at her but couldn’t hold her gaze even long enough to shake his head. “He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“You went on a date. Did you decide it wasn’t—”

“I paid him,” Derek said. “He— It was obvious. We always go to the—the private room, and—” Derek’s hands tightened on the counter. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Derek,” she said, not getting any closer to him but sounding like she wanted to, “you paid him?” 

“I didn’t want him to— It doesn’t matter,” Derek repeated. Maybe if he kept saying that, it could turn true. 

“Derek,” Erica said. 

He shook his head. “I’m— I’m sorry for what I did last night, I swear I am, but— I can’t, Erica. Not today. I— Thank you for getting my prescriptions and everything, but—” 

“Got you food, too,” she said, but her voice was light enough that he was sure she was teasing, even though he couldn’t look at her. “The really unhealthy crap, too. Even got you some of those organic Oreos for you to mix in with your ice cream. Even though you’re supposed to get cookies and cream so the ice cream soaks into the cookies and softens them.” 

Derek laughed, shaking his head as he turned to open his freezer and started moving the mozzarella sticks, ice cream, pizza, and, of all things, gluten-free mac and cheese. “Why did you get gluten-free—”

“Damn it,” Erica muttered. “Mac and cheese, right? God, I thought they’d changed their packaging or something.” 

“It’s fine,” Derek said. “Just tastes a little different.” 

“No shit,” she said. “It’s gluten-free. The gluten’s the good part.” 

Derek rolled his eyes and shut his freezer. 

“What, are you not gonna eat any of that?” 

“I’m making breakfast.” 

“Have you never heard of ice cream for breakfast, Derek? Seriously, it’s—”

“I’m making eggs and bacon,” Derek said, “it takes time to cook. I don’t want anything to melt.”

Erica cackled gleefully. “So you are gonna have ice cream for breakfast?” 

Derek snorted, turning back on the burner. He beat the eggs again and poured them into the pan. “With eggs and bacon.” 

“Very healthy,” Erica said, grinning as Derek set the now-empty bowl into the sink. “Good decision.” 

Derek rolled his eyes like she was annoying him, but she wasn’t. 

Something deep inside him eased, and Derek returned to his eggs with a lighter heart. Not light enough, but like it had a hope of getting there. 

###

Despite feeling better than he had for a while—not just because of Erica, either, because he’d finally started taking his medications again, even though it would take more than a few hours for the Prozac to start working again—he was still consumed with thinking of what had happened with Stiles. 

How badly he’d fucked up thinking that— 

Derek rubbed his temple where a headache was forming. Slow, steady—not like the sudden icepick headaches he’d gotten for a while. 

He still didn’t know what those were from. 

The point, though, was that he was sitting in the strip club, at the bar, sipping a drink—trying to, anyway—and wearing old sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt that could’ve had thumbholes for how far it went past his wrists, and a baseball cap. 

And his boots, but they were omnipresent. 

He hadn’t been able to coax himself into wearing a henley—which would’ve shown the scars on his forearms—or even some jeans, which would’ve affected how well he could run. 

Which was stupid. 

But he hadn’t even gone to get the mail, not even after dark, because he was convinced that somebody would see him, so… maybe it wasn’t that stupid. Maybe he just wanted it to be stupid. 

Ha. Maybe. 

Derek finally adjusted his hat so he could see anything—even as his thoughts caught on _if you can see them, they can see you_ —and nodded at Scott’s wild puppy grin. 

“Good tonight, right? I changed the honey.” 

It was sweeter, but it had something else in it. 

“Yes,” Derek said, voice rasping a little, and he cleared his throat, flushing. 

Scott glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes went wide. Derek turned, taking a sip of his drink even as he knew it had to be an awful idea, if Scott had seen something—

It soured. 

Stiles was grinding on a man. Giving him a—a lap dance. 

Derek tried not to spit the whiskey back into his glass and just forced himself to swallow it down, anyway. 

His shoulders hunched, and he turned back towards the counter. 

God, he was an idiot, coming out here, thinking anything could’ve changed. 

“I—I forgot something,” Derek said, hoping it was loud enough that Scott could hear it. 

“Derek,” Scott started, probably thinking Derek was lying and just trying to bolt. Which—kind of? But not totally. He had left something behind, it was just that he’d been hoping it wouldn’t end up being forgetting it so much as not needing it. “I have to— There’s something you need to—” 

Derek stood from the stool and headed towards the doors, trying to keep his pace calm even as he wanted to run—even as he wanted to just all-out sprint. 

Nobody would come after him, though, and that was good. That was good. 

He’d be fine. 

Derek let himself start jogging as he got onto the sidewalk and headed to his car. He’d just— 

He’d fucked up, thinking Stiles would want him. Thinking Stiles was in it for anything other than the money, which— Jesus. Jesus. He’d fucking brought money into it, anyway, and it had to be tempting, no matter what, if somebody went on a date and then got paid thousands for it. 

Stiles would’ve thought he was just being cheap if Derek had asked Stiles to be with him seriously, no money involved. 

God, he was an idiot. 

He pulled the checkbook from his glove compartment and grabbed the pen next to it and locked his car door again. 

He leaned on the door for a long moment, trying to calm down from— He didn’t even know. Irrationality? Stupidity? Idiocy? 

He should’ve seen it. He should’ve seen it and understood that—that whatever it was he wanted, it didn’t matter. This was about Stiles, not him, and so if Stiles wanted to be with—with men that looked like that, then— 

It didn’t look like it was just a customer. Stiles had never done anything like that for him, and—and they’d—

Derek was—

He headed back to the strip club. It didn’t matter, not really, so… whatever. Whatever, it…. 

He’d get over it. All he had going for him was his money, and he’d known that for a long time—however much he pretended otherwise—so he’d use what he had. 

Sugar babies were—they were a thing. And Derek could afford it, even with just the money he had that was liquid at the moment. Might free up the monotony of just buying things for Erica and Boyd and Isaac—who never asked for anything, really—and donating to charities and getting offered plaques and shit on the new wings. 

If Stiles was just going to see people who looked like Colton while he took Derek’s money—probably spend it on his dates with Colton or whoever the fuck it was—then that was fine. 

That was fine, and—and the worst part, easily, was that Derek would still do it. Any part of Stiles was worth it, whatever the cost. 

If the cost was a few hundred thousand dollars and his heart slowly tearing into two pieces, then—then that was just what it was. He’d deal with it as it came. He wanted Stiles, whatever the price was. Even if it was a literal price. 

Besides, after Kate, maybe it was better not to try for something “real” again. It was healthier. 

Derek nodded to the bouncer on his way in again and headed back to the bar, shoving the checkbook into his front pocket, next to his phone. He kept the pen out to show Scott, to prove that he had, in fact, forgotten something. It just wasn’t the whole thing that he—

“Derek,” Stiles said, from the bar, and Derek stopped, bodily jerking back even as his feet stayed planted on the ground. “Hey, how are you?” He had a cosmo in one hand and a bowl of salted nuts in the other that had been picked clean of almonds. 

He forced himself to keep walking over. “Hi,” he said, throat tight enough that it was almost impossible to get the one word out. He opened his mouth to ask if they could head back to a private room—because the crowd and the music was definitely influencing his ability to say anything—but nothing came out. 

“Do you want to go to a private room?” Stiles asked, and it wasn’t in that slinky, seductive way he’d asked it before—it sounded more like he was asking if Derek needed a moment to step outside. 

Derek nodded, just as jerky and panicked as his heart was as it thumped away in his chest. 

“Okay. Scotty, let me know if he—” Stiles glanced to Derek, then back to Scott, who was frowning deeply. “Just. If something changes?”

“This is a terrible idea,” Scott muttered, probably low enough that he thought Derek wouldn’t be able to hear him. 

Stiles shot Scott a sharp, irritated look, and set the rest of his cosmo down, offering his cold, slightly damp hand to Derek, who took it, squeezing it without a thought. 

Stiles grinned at him. “Nut? They’re very salty.” 

Derek smiled despite himself as Stiles waved the bowl at him. 

“I think the Old Fashioned room’s open,” Stiles said, “so if you want…?”

Derek nodded. “Okay,” he said, voice coming out too soft, too weak. 

Stiles didn’t seem to mind, though, and just squeezed his hand right back and led him through the strip club, gaze only flicking over to the man he’d been giving a lap dance twice. 

Derek tried to tell himself he didn’t mind. It wasn’t like he owned Stiles, anyway, and it really wasn’t like he could buy him. So it didn’t matter. 

It couldn’t matter, so it didn’t. 

Once they were in the Old Fashioned room, much to Stiles’ delight, Stiles locked the door and set the bowl of nuts down on the table. “Saved you some cashews,” Stiles said, nodding to them as he bustled around adjusting the music. 

“I think you saved everything but the almonds,” Derek said. 

Stiles glanced back to him with a wicked grin that shouldn’t have been allowed to exist on anybody’s face, much less his. It was like staring into the sun and assuming your vision would be fine. 

It was blinding, and it hurt, but— Maybe it was like staring at a solar eclipse, then. 

Derek didn’t care, though, not really. As long as he could look, he didn’t care about the specifics of why he was looking. 

It was Stiles. That was more than enough reason to stare. 

“So,” Stiles said, turning on what even Derek could recognize as Sia’s Chandelier (thanks to Isaac obsessing over the music video) and then blushing. “You didn’t hear that, sorry— Okay.” He skipped to something that sounded similar but less… mournful? 

“I only heard this song,” Derek affirmed, and Stiles smiled at him—softer, gentler. 

Derek’s heart tore a little farther apart. 

“I wanted to ask you,” Derek said, and then his voice cracked and broke altogether because Stiles had turned around, bent over, and started shaking his ass. 

“Yeah?” 

Derek stared, wide-eyed, at the tiny peeks of Stiles’ ass, skin bare, from the edge of his underwear, which couldn’t possibly qualify as boxer-briefs. “I don’t know,” Derek said, mouth drier than anything. And he hadn’t even had any of the nuts, either. 

Stiles straightened up and turned at the waist, stretching in a way that should have been illegal. 

Actually, it might have been. Derek hadn’t heard anything about “weird bullshit laws” since Laur—

And then Stiles was turning around fully, and his cock was hard in his red shorts—they were not underwear, they couldn’t be underwear—and Derek couldn’t breathe. 

Stiles looked particularly satisfied by that reaction. “So,” he said, stalking forward, looking entirely at home, and Derek couldn’t have taken his eyes off of him, no matter what happened. No matter what—

Stiles knelt on top of him, one leg on either side of Derek’s, and rested his arms on Derek’s shoulders, still far back enough that Derek couldn’t lean forward and kiss him, but close enough that it wouldn’t have been much more distance to cover. 

Derek’s brain was shorting out, and he didn’t even care. He didn’t even mind, and that had to be the stupidest thing on the—

“You wore your boots,” Stiles said. 

Derek nodded. “I— Yes.”

“You know,” Stiles said, so conversationally that Derek was almost fooled, “I think I haven’t gotten to enjoy them for a while.” 

Derek whined and tried to clear his throat as Stiles smiled. “Let me hear all of it, Der,” he murmured, and finally leaned in to kiss him. 

Derek moaned, hands flying to Stiles’ hips like magnets, entirely uncontrollable. And even if it had been, Derek wouldn’t have wanted to control it, not even a little. Not when not controlling it meant he got to have this. 

Stiles’ lips were warm and soft and wet on his, and Stiles licked into his mouth like Derek was water and he was dying of thirst and Derek—Derek gripped him tighter, tugging Stiles’ body down onto his cock, still with fucking sweatpants between them, but—

Oh. Oh. So this—this was why they said to wear sweatpants. 

Derek had been doing this all wrong, and for so long, too. God— He’d been missing the fuck out, and for way too fucking long. 

“Derek,” Stiles murmured, between kisses, and rocked down onto Derek and he—

“Please,” Derek said, not knowing what he was asking for but certain that Stiles would hear it, would understand it anyway, would be able to—to do whatever he needed. 

And then Stiles stood, getting off his lap entirely, and knelt on the floor, looking up at Derek. 

Okay. Okay, Derek had been wrong because—

Stiles picked up his foot. 

Derek’s eyes widened. Or—another potential explanation—Derek was just being very impatient and Stiles knew exactly what he was doing. 

Derek should’ve never doubted him, Jesus fucking—

Stiles unlaced the boot and tugged the tongue of it down onto his tongue and licked over the leather and it shot to Derek’s cock like Stiles had licked his actual cock. 

It should be impossible, but it was Stiles. And when it was Stiles, it was like everything was possible. He didn’t have to follow all of those earthly limitations—he was entirely exempt. 

And thank fuck for that. 

“Get up here,” Derek said, voice growly but not even slightly angry, slightly upset. 

Stiles grinned at him. “You sure you don’t want me to keep going?” 

“I’m pretty sure I’d rather just fuck you,” Derek muttered. 

Stiles raised his eyebrows, quick and easy, and Derek huffed and reached down to cup his face, ignoring the pressure—almost painful—that it put on his cock, and kissed him, hard enough that Stiles moaned, his hands coming up to grip Derek’s knees. 

“So perfect,” Derek murmured, “perfect for me.” 

Stiles smiled against his lips. “You say that now,” he said, voice soft as he kept kissing Derek even as he stood and shoved his underwear down, and Derek frowned. 

“What? Why wouldn’t I—” 

Stiles sat on his cock, and Derek’s hips bucked up, even with almost no leverage. “That’s why,” Stiles said, and Derek could hear the smile but he was staring at the ceiling, unable to even try refocusing his eyes just yet. 

“Jesus, Stiles,” he croaked, toes curling in his boots—and the feeling of one of his boots being unlaced and undone and the other still done up just as snug as it was when he left the house was insane, and it was almost distracting enough that he might be able to not come within just a couple minutes. 

Might. 

And then Stiles lifted up, until just the very tip of Derek’s cock was still inside of him—and Derek looked down in time to see that, which was absolutely impossibly hot—and then he sat back down, rolling his hips in a way that made Stiles moan, his cock bounce, and every muscle in Derek’s body tense, desperate for more even though Stiles was already giving him so much. 

Just like—

He pushed the thought out of his mind and bucked up into Stiles, deeper still, and Stiles let out a moan like Derek had done something absolutely spectacular. 

“Harder,” Stiles whispered, voice thinner than a breath, and Derek grabbed one of his hips and used his other arm to support him as he turned them, pressing Stiles down onto the sofa and letting Stiles’ legs come up around his hips. “Derek,” he whined, and Derek reached down to grab his cock and work it back inside of Stiles, who relaxed as soon as Derek’s cock was back inside of him. 

“So gorgeous,” Derek murmured, leaning down to kiss at Stiles’ collarbone, his throat. “If I— If I wanted to leave a—a mark….”

“Not tonight,” Stiles said, one hand reaching down between them to grab himself. “Any other night, Der, I swear I’d love nothing more, but— I can’t tonight. I can’t, I’m—”

“Shh,” Derek said, shaking his head and pressing a kiss to Stiles’ forehead, which was—oddly intimate when he was pounding into Stiles like this. “It’s okay, I understand. I promise.” 

Stiles let out a sob, and Derek wiped a tear from his cheek, frowning. “Stiles,” he began, “are you—”

Stiles clenched up tight around him and moaned, long and low, as he came, shooting his load onto Derek and onto himself and Derek—

“Stiles,” Derek whispered, fingers tightening on Stiles’ hip before he forced himself to let go before he came. He gripped the leather of the couch, his nails digging in too hard, and bit into his own forearm to muffle his shout as he came in Stiles, and Stiles let him, stroking a hand through his hair gently, softly, sweetly. 

Derek shook as his vision whited out and all he could feel was warm bursts of sharp, tingling pleasure throbbing through his cock and Stiles’ hand, carding through his hair, over and over and over again. 

It was dizzying how good it was. 

He slumped a little as he came down and unlatched his teeth from his arm, wincing at the spit pooled there and the teeth marks. 

Probably good that he’d worn the long sleeves and had rolled them up before he started fucking Stiles. 

Stiles was murmuring something, but his ears were ringing too loud to hear anything before Stiles had stopped speaking altogether. 

Derek didn’t want to ask, though. It was probably just him asking Derek to get off him, to—to leave. 

He closed his eyes as his hearing went back to normal and he pressed up onto his hands, pushing himself away from Stiles enough that he wasn’t crushing him. “I— I wanted to ask you something,” Derek said. 

Stiles made an inquisitive noise, like he was genuinely curious, but Derek didn’t dare look at him. Not when—when there was somebody out in the main room that he wanted to be with, somebody that he wanted to fuck, somebody— 

Derek had one thing going for him. 

“Would—would you be interested,” he said, throat gumming up, “in a full-time paid relationship.” 

Stiles’ hips tensed and adjusted under him. “Is this— Is this about what happened the other night?” 

Derek opened his eyes and sat back, busying himself with putting his cock away. “Kind of,” he said, trying to avoid saying outright that it was also about what happened twenty minutes earlier. Trying to avoid admitting aloud that Derek knew just how ugly he was, how hard he was to look at. Trying to avoid mentioning Colton’s name. “But I don’t—”

“Okay,” Stiles nodded, “yeah.” Stiles smiled at him, but it wasn’t nearly as bright as Derek had grown used to. 

Had Stiles wanted this to be some kind of farewell thing? Where they’d just—

Stiles reached up and hugged Derek, pulling him down until their chests met. “That sounds really good, Der,” Stiles said, voice soft, and Derek hugged him back, squeezing the back of his neck. 

Thank fuck. Thank fuck Stiles had been willing to tolerate Derek in exchange for some money. 

Stiles didn’t want to call everything off. Derek really did have something of value. Literal value. 

“So,” Stiles said, long moments later, his voice barely above a whisper, “do you want to—to set up a time at your house, or something? So we can talk and, um, work things out? Figure everything out about this?” 

“Okay,” Derek said, burying his face deeper into the crook of Stiles’ neck. 

He hadn’t fucked everything up. He could still keep Stiles. 

Or, more accurately, Stiles was willing to keep him. 

###

Derek’s house was a complete and utter wreck, but he could fix that with just a few hours of hard work. And maybe a few more hours of working on just cleaning everything, because, despite Erica trying to push him to at least hire a cleaning company, he’d still been refusing. 

Maybe that had been a bad decision, though, because when he got home from the strip club, he’d spent three and a half hours trying to clean the living room until it didn’t look so dusty anymore, but it was a losing battle. 

It wasn’t even that he was a messy person, or that he had too much clutter—except for one room, but that was in one room for a reason—it was just that… cleaning was always a low priority. He could just open the windows when the dust got to be too much, or run a vacuum under his bed every few months. And he took out his trash frequently enough, anyway. 

So… it worked. It had to work, so it did. 

But it worked because nobody except three people—all of them whom he’d known before everything—ever entered his home, and it was only Erica who regularly came over. If Stiles was coming over…. 

So Derek had spent three hours tackling his living room, and by the end of them, he was completely exhausted—not because it was difficult so much as it was because he had to get out a ladder and climb it just so he could dust his ceiling fan. And put in new lightbulbs, because he’d stopped using the overhead lights a while ago. 

High ceilings had looked nice until the lightbulbs started burning out. And lamps were easier, and he was less likely to fall, and since he lived alone and he didn’t have Life Alert and Erica would take it as him finally giving in, he… he didn’t want to risk it. 

He hadn’t really thought about it, though, before he’d climbed up the ladder. 

And then he’d dropped the old lightbulb and had to spend another half hour sweeping up all the tiny pieces that kept crushing under his boots as he tried to walk around with a damp cloth to wipe the dust from— Well, from everything. 

Derek had kind of forgotten that the crown molding was supposed to be white, not a light grey-brown. Which was sad on another level. 

After a few hours, though, he’d given up and pulled his laptop out so he could research sugar baby relationships and understand what in the hell he was actually supposed to do so that Stiles wouldn’t just leave him. 

Which had lasted for almost fourteen minutes before his anxiety grew too great and he switched over to the news. Which probably should’ve been more upsetting, but the news didn’t really affect him like Stiles did, like their relationship did. 

Derek scrolled through the Trending News, which was a feature that just seemed altogether stupid, since it brought up ancient articles from years earlier, and—

But that one. That— That one was recent. That one was from a few hours ago. 

At the very bottom of the rankings, in small font because it was number fifty of fifty and not two or three or even thirty, was what he’d been dreading for years. 

She’d escaped. 

His ears rung. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter I have fully drafted as of now. I hope to continue updating to some degree, but please don't expect additional updates with any kind of consistency or frequency. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

The pizza—which he’d ordered from a delivery place so that his kitchen wouldn’t be messy when Stiles came over—had arrived almost five minutes earlier, and Derek was still panicking about where in the fuck he was supposed to put it. He had it on the center island in the kitchen, but it wasn’t like they were going to stand there and eat pizza and talk—they would sit down. 

They _would_ sit down, right? 

Derek turned back towards the living room. The coffee table might work, but maybe it was too informal, too casual—hell, with his couch, maybe it was even too presumptuous. 

But the dining room _had_ to be a no-go. It was— Well, it was nice, but it was too nice. And Stiles seemed like he was a lot more comfortable in casual clothes, so— Coffee table, right? Living room. 

What if he pulled the stools out of storage and they sat at the breakfast bar? Or maybe he should just get the breakfast table out of the garage, because it really wasn’t—

The door bell rang, and Derek’s head turned without his permission, like a fucking dog. 

Oh, god. Oh, god, he’d waited too long. 

Derek froze. 

The door bell rang again, and Derek made himself start walking. It was _definitely_ Stiles. It had to be, there was— There was nobody else that it really could be. Nobody. 

Oh, fuck. 

He glanced at his phone, checking the ring camera—which maybe he should’ve done earlier—and, yes, it was Stiles. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a plaid overshirt and the dining room _really_ would’ve been a misstep. What the hell else did Derek need, fucking fine china for meat lover’s pizza? 

Derek shoved his phone into his pocket and unlocked the door—he’d only locked one lock, hoping that Stiles could be distracted, he wouldn’t see just _how many_ locks Derek had on his door. 

If Derek had been really smart, though, he would’ve just taken the extra locks off in advance, but that would require more preparation and it risked somebody coming in while the locks were off—and Kate had broken out of prison. 

So he wasn’t quite ready for that. 

Derek opened the door and tried to match Stiles’ enthusiastic smile. 

“Hey, man,” Stiles said, grinning as he stepped inside. “This is a fucking crazy neighborhood, by the way. Your mailboxes? _Weird_. I found yours, by the way.” 

Derek blinked at him. “Which— Which one?” He closed the door behind Stiles and tried to turn the lock as casually as a lock could be turned. 

Stiles glanced at his door and his eyes widened for a moment before he shrugged, so minute Derek barely caught it. “The one with the fake candy.” Stiles winked at him. “So, should I take off my shoes? ‘Cause, like, your floors—”

“I— It doesn’t matter,” Derek said, starting to panic because he was wearing socks—plain black—and he’d probably fucked up there, too. 

“Okay,” Stiles said, and watched him for a moment. 

Derek’s cheeks heated. 

“You know,” Stiles said, “I don’t really know where anything here is, so… maybe you could show me where you wanted to sit down or something?” 

Derek tried to smile. 

It felt like a grimace, though, so he dropped it a moment later. “Sure,” he said. “I got— I have pizza. In the kitchen.” He motioned for Stiles to follow him and prayed he hadn’t fucked—

“Oh, sweet, you made pizza?” 

Derek winced. “Um,” he said. “No, I— It, um—”

“This is my favorite pizza place,” Stiles said, as soon as the boxes came into view, and Derek’s shoulders eased a little. “Like, no offense, but no pizza can top theirs. _None_. Not even DiGiorno.”

“You eat DiGiorno?” Derek tried not to wrinkle his nose at that as he pulled some plates out from a cabinet. 

“It’s not delivery,” Stiles said, overdramatic, “it’s _DiGiorno_.” 

“Good to know,” Derek muttered. “Do you— I’ve got a, um, living room. And a coffee table, and a dining room, and a—”

“Living room’s good,” Stiles said, and picked up the pizza boxes easily. “You can’t eat pizza at a table seriously. You’ve got to eat it in bed, or on a bean bag, or on a couch. It’s a comfortable food, Der.” 

Derek smiled despite himself—despite his nerves. “Yeah?” 

“Totally,” Stiles said, and set the pizza boxes down on the coffee table. “How many slices do you want?” 

Derek hesitated. “How many are you having?” 

“I don’t know, maybe— Well, if I’m being sexy, I’ll have part of one.” 

Derek snorted as Stiles looked up at him as he sat down on the couch, right in the middle. 

Okay, so— Derek should sit in an armchair to respect Stiles’ personal space. 

Derek handed him a plate. “And if you’re not being… ‘sexy’?”

“Like four? Five? I don’t know, probably just half the pizza would be faster.” 

Derek considered that for a moment, then took a slice of pizza for himself and passed the box over to Stiles. 

“Health nut,” Derek said, and winced because Stiles had kind of debunked that in the movie theater. 

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him, eyes dancing. “Definitely.” And with that, he took a truly massive, truly disgusting bite of pizza, the grease dripping visibly as the cheese stretched. 

It should not have reminded Derek of—

Derek cleared his throat and sat down in the armchair next to the couch, facing Stiles. “I—”

“Dude, you can sit next to me,” Stiles said. 

Derek blinked at him. “I wasn’t sure—”

“You’ve been balls-deep in me,” Stiles said, and Derek choked on nothing, glancing away as Stiles’ long fingers adjusted their grip on his slice of pizza, “I think you can sit next to me on a couch.” 

“If you’re sure,” Derek said, already moving to sitting next to him. Stiles might take it back, and Derek would deal with it if that was the case, but—

Stiles grinned, mouth full of pizza. 

It was gross. Not as gross as it would’ve been if it had been anybody else. 

“So,” Stiles said, and swallowed the pizza. “Wait, I’m gonna get water. Where do you keep your glasses?” 

“I’ll get it,” Derek said, jumping to his feet so fast his pizza almost went sliding off his plate. “I’ll— Water or soda? Or juice? I think— I might have alcohol. Too. Beer?” 

“Water’s fine,” Stiles said, looking almost amused. 

_Not fond, not possibly fond. It was a business transaction and Stiles wanted somebody else, somebody who wasn’t_ Derek—

“Sure,” Derek said quickly, and hurried into the kitchen, gripping the counter and never feeling more grateful that the kitchen was the one part of the house that didn’t subscribe to the open floor plan. 

It would be fine. Stiles wouldn’t hate him by the end of this as long as he acted like a normal person. 

And since a normal person wouldn’t run into their kitchen and hold on to a counter like it was the edge of a cliff and he was about to fall, Derek hurried up and got two cups of ice water. 

He didn’t, in fact, have alcohol. Which was probably for the best, because he really wasn’t supposed to drink on any of his medications, but— 

It didn’t matter. 

He ducked through the doorway and tried not to freeze up as he took in Stiles, holding his phone, typing something. 

Probably texting the same guy from the strip club. _Shit_. Okay, he’d—

What he’d found about sugar baby relationships had been wildly varied, but Derek figured that he should probably just double whatever he thought was reasonable. 

It wasn’t at all just to get Stiles’ attention off somebody who looked like that, who could probably stand being in crowds, who could _talk_ when he wanted to, and—

Derek set the water down and picked his pizza back up, and by the time he sat down and turned towards Stiles, his phone was back in his pocket and the pizza box was on his lap again. 

“So,” Stiles said, not quite smiling but obviously relaxed. “Tell me what you’re thinking about. For… for everything.” 

Derek had no idea where to begin, so he decided on talking about what he wanted from Stiles. Which was probably stupid, but— 

“A couple dates a week,” Derek said, “and if you could stay over a night or two a week, um. Whatever, um, bills you have?”

“Okay,” Stiles said, “counter offer. Two dates a week, I’ll stay over at least two nights a week, and in exchange, for now we’ll go shopping for comic books or some frivolous shit I’d never buy for myself, and I’ll let you know what my bills are so we could do, like, an allowance or something.” 

Derek felt sick, but he nodded. 

“And don’t worry,” Stiles continued, “because I’m gonna make it worth your while.” 

Derek flushed as the thought raced across his mind—not fast enough to ignore or entirely write off, though—that Stiles had already done that easily. 

“In fact,” he said, smirking slightly, “I think I’ll show you just how I’m gonna make it worth your while.” Stiles waggled his eyebrows. 

“What,” Derek asked. Or said. Or something. 

His brain might be shorting out a little. 

Or a lot. 

Stiles leaned forward, reaching out, and pulled Derek’s shirt up, exposing his belt. “You know,” he said, unbuckling it, slipping the leather through the metal, “I’ve got a lot of ways that I could make this… exciting.” 

Derek didn’t doubt it, but the possibility of him _speaking_ was… well, it was fucking ridiculous. 

He tried, anyway, and came up with a grunt that sounded so stupidly _desperate_ that he wanted to kick himself, but instead of Stiles backing off or smirking at him, Stiles let out a soft, almost _pained_ noise and somehow pulled his zipper open without actually unzipping it, and then Derek’s cock was out, inches away from Stiles’ mouth, and Derek stopped breathing completely. 

Stiles’ tongue poked out, soft and pink and shiny- _wet_ , and he lapped against Derek’s cockhead, looking up at Derek with the kind of doe eyes that, prior to meeting Stiles, Derek was sure only existed in Disney. 

Stiles opened his mouth, his tongue poking just barely out over his bottom lip, and then he took Derek’s cock into his mouth, only an inch, but Derek let out a noise like Stiles had gutted him. He scrambled backwards, clutching at the sofa cushions, trying to find some anchor point to hold on to for dear life, because he felt like he was about to fall apart in some hideous, grotesque way that would make Stiles turn tail and run like he should’ve—

And then Stiles swallowed around him, throat convulsing, and Derek couldn’t remember what it was, exactly, that he’d been thinking about. All his focus narrowed down to Stiles, and the wet heat of his mouth, the lapping hot of his tongue, and he groaned, eyes falling shut. 

His balls ached, his thighs ached—the unending tension of desperately trying not to fuck into Stiles’ mouth—and his jaw ached. 

Stiles backed off slowly, and, with a loud, _lewd_ wet pop, he pulled off of Derek’s cock and Derek gasped, choking on it as he blinked, focusing his gaze on Stiles. 

“I want to hear you,” Stiles said, his voice raw and rasping, and Derek valiantly fought back a whine. “Yeah,” Stiles said, “don’t do that.” 

Derek winced. “I’m— I didn’t me— _ean_.” He tried to refocus on whatever he was intending to say, but Stiles was gagging against his cock, moaning, scratching his short nails against Derek’s thighs, and it tickled, almost, how Stiles’ nails brushed against the hairs, ruffling them and—

“Stiles,” Derek gasped as Stiles cupped his balls in one hand and, with his other—somehow supporting himself—wrapped _tight_ around Derek’s cock. 

“Yeah?” And he sounded _wrecked_ , and if Stiles hadn’t squeezed _hard_ around Derek’s cock, especially with the way he tightened his fingers against Derek’s balls, which shouldn’t have felt so good— 

“Oh, god,” Derek whispered. “Oh, god, Stiles— Stiles, please, I can’t— Can I—can I come? Please.” 

Derek cried out, high and almost squeaking, like a horrible, pained whine, because Stiles’ hands tightened harder somehow. 

“Sorry,” Stiles murmured. 

Derek shook his head, flushing. “Don’t—don’t apologize,” he whispered, his stomach twisting in a way that felt like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, about to jump into the water. 

Stiles loosened his grip, though, slow and then abrupt. “Why not?” he said, but it seemed almost rhetorical, because he was sitting back on his knees and unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down and—and oh, god, white fucking briefs had never looked this erotic before. 

Admittedly, though, Derek usually didn’t see white briefs soaked through with precome, wet and sticky fabric pressed out with the weight of Stiles’ cock. He was sure, though, all at once, that he could never forget this. Not for the rest of his life, not if he tried.

Stiles was grinning at him, and Derek blushed. “Like what you see?” Stiles asked, wiggling his hips—and god, really, it shouldn’t have been erotic. And it really, really shouldn’t have been endearing, either. 

But Derek blamed that fucking hip wiggle for grabbing Stiles’ hips himself, squeezing his ass, and shoving at his jeans as he simultaneously tried to pull Stiles on top of his lap. 

“Hey— Okay, slow down, buddy.” Stiles patted his shoulder. 

“Don’t call me buddy,” Derek said, trying to scowl. It came out reverent, awed. 

Derek closed his eyes and tipped his head forward, loosening his grip on Stiles and rubbing his thumbs against Stiles’ cooling skin. 

Shit. He hadn’t even thought about turning off the A/C, much less turning on the heat. Did he have a blanket? He could swear that he and Erica had had an argument that had spanned _weeks_ about whether he should, in fact, have blankets on his couch, and he still didn’t fucking _have one_. They’d switched positions on it so many times—

“Where’d you go?” 

Derek looked up, mouth parting as Stiles’ hand pressed soft against his jaw. “Sorry,” he whispered. 

Stiles bit his lip. “Don’t apologize. Do you— We can stop.” 

Derek shook his head at that, frantic. “No, I— I don’t— If you want to—”

“I don’t want to stop,” Stiles said, sitting down on Derek’s lap, and he realized abruptly that Stiles’ cock was tucked up the waistband of his briefs, pinned against his happy trail. 

_And what a happy fucking trail it was._

Maybe Derek’s brain was melting a little. 

Derek licked his lips. “I—I have lube?” 

Stiles grinned at him. “I’m good.” 

Derek frowned, startled. “Stiles, you can’t think,” Stiles took his hand, “that _spit_ — Oh. _Oh_.” He tightened his fingers against what felt like—like— “Is that—”

“It’s jade. Rhinestone jade, but.” Stiles shrugged. “You wanna see?” 

He shook his head. “No, I— Can I fuck you?” 

Stiles pushed back against his hand. “What’s the magic word,” he said, almost teasing, but his eyes glinted something sharp and dangerous and Derek struggled not to just go limp and sink into the couch and let Stiles do whatever he wanted to his body as long as he liked it, regardless of what Derek liked or wanted. Letting Stiles use his cock or his mouth or—or anything, for as long as he wanted, regardless of whether Derek could even _come_ if—

“Please,” Derek whispered. Something softened in Stiles’ expression, and then he was brushing Derek’s hand away and pulling the plug out and tossing it—somewhere, probably on the couch. 

“Say it again,” Stiles said, raising up onto his knees. 

“Please.” It came out of him like it was physically pulled, forced out of his throat and into the air. “Please, _Stiles_.” 

Stiles sat down and Derek slipped inside of him, easy as anything, and Stiles gasped and Derek swallowed back his own groan. He didn’t want to risk missing one noise from Stiles, not now and not ever. 

But then Stiles just sat there, unmoving. For the first minute, Derek stayed quiet, unprotesting, because Stiles had taken him quickly, after all, and so it made sense that he’d need some time to adjust. 

After that, though, he opened his eyes slowly and met Stiles’ sharp, unyielding gaze. “What did I tell you?” he asked. 

Derek stared at him, trying not to gape, because _how in the fuck_ could he _possibly_ be expected to remember anything? 

“I told you to make noise,” he said. “To stop holding back.” Stiles rose up and Derek stifled a grunt. “To stop doing that.” 

Derek blinked. “I— But—”

“Derek,” Stiles said, and Derek’s fingers tightened against Stiles’ hips, digging at the bones. Stiles shivered. “Please.” 

He took a breath and then, steadying Stiles’ hips, fucked up into him, and tried to keep his throat relaxed as he moaned, soft and muffled into Stiles’ shoulder. 

“Shit, yes,” Stiles groaned, trying to push down onto Derek’s cock. Derek smiled to himself, almost triumphantly, and tightened his grip on Stiles’ hips. “Der— _oh, god_ —no fair.” 

“How so?” Derek hissed in pleasure, nails digging into Stiles’ skin for a second. 

“Do that again,” Stiles whined, rocking back and forth—but not up and down, and that was all Derek really cared about. 

“Do what again?” Derek asked, thrusting into Stiles hard enough that Stiles yelped and his cock twitched, a thick bead of precome spilling and dripping down, long and sticky and perfect, onto Derek’s navel. 

“Oh, my god,” Stiles whispered. “Oh, my god. You’re really gonna make me—” Stiles gasped, grabbing at Derek’s shoulders. “Oh, my god, Derek, Derek, dig your nails in again. Dig th— _them_ , oh, god.” 

“Good?” Derek panted. “You like that?” 

Stiles nodded fervently. “Yes, I fucking— _Fuck!_ God, Derek, I can’t— I have to….”

“You gonna come?” Derek dug his nails in a little harder and his balls tightened at the whine Stiles let out, at how beautifully, perfectly fucking _desperate_ it was. “Stiles, please—please tell me you’re gonna come.” 

Stiles laughed, and it did something insane and absolutely ridiculous to Derek’s cock, and Derek faltered. “Of course I’m gon—” He broke off into a gutted moan as Derek sped back up and tugged Stiles down to meet his thrusts. 

Derek realized a moment later that he should probably jerk Stiles off, too, but it only took Derek letting go of one hip and his wrist bumping against Stiles’ cock to send him shooting onto Derek’s stomach and chest—and one long rope that made it nearly to his chin. Stiles moaned, his legs shaking. 

Derek slowed down and came to a stop a moment later, muscles trembling. 

Stiles blinked at him, eyes focusing slowly. “Why’d you stop?” 

“I— You came, I didn’t— I mean—”

“I want you to come in me,” Stiles said. “I mean, if you want to do this missionary so I can go to sleep after, I’m game for that, too.” 

Derek blushed despite himself. “Yeah?” 

Stiles grinned at him, loose and sated. Almost sleepy. “Fuckin’ _totally_ , dude.” 

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek said, but it felt token. 

Stiles’ grin widened. “Okay,” he said, voice soft. 

Derek picked Stiles up and carefully set him on his back. And Stiles grabbed the backs of his legs and pulled his knees to his chest. 

Derek’s eyes widened. “You— _Stiles_.” 

“Me Stiles,” Stiles said, his smile too fucking cocky for Derek to handle, “you Derek.” 

Derek scowled—sort of—and pushed back into him. Stiles’ hole opened up and tugged him inside, and Stiles kicked at his ribs—gently—with his heel. Derek still felt like a horse. “Stiles,” he began. 

“Fill me up, Derek.” 

Derek stared down at him, at his open expression, his soft gaze, his softer lips. “You sure?” 

Stiles smiled at him. “Wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t,” he said. And—well, yeah, that was probably true. “C’mon. Or you could come on me. I mean, you’re going to have to get a washcloth either way, right?” 

Derek leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, and lined himself back up. “You can change your mind,” he said against Stiles’ throat. 

It vibrated with Stiles’ chuckle. “I know,” he said. It sounded almost bitter for a second, and then he cleared his throat, tilted his hips even further towards his head, pulled his knees back even more, and winked at Derek. 

So Derek pressed in, slow and careful, and only pulled out a little before sliding back in. 

Stiles let go of one of his legs in favor of clutching at Derek’s bicep. “Hard—harder, Der. Fuck me.” 

Derek nuzzled into the groove of his neck and shoulder and breathed in the scent of his salty skin. “Stiles,” he murmured, soft and more than a little desperate. 

“I know—I know. You can come, Der, any time you want. Okay? You come in me or on me and you can come whenever—”

Derek moaned, hips faltering. “Stiles,” he gasped. “Please.” 

Stiles’ hand rested warm and dry against his sweaty back. He drew his fingers together, scratching Derek lightly. “Come for me, Der.” 

And he did, gasping and panting the entire time, trying to fuck deeper into Stiles even though it was physically impossible to get deeper than he’d already been. It didn’t matter, though—he just wanted to be closer, deeper. 

Derek shuddered at the last dregs of his orgasm and snuffled into Stiles’ neck. He felt like a dog, almost, but he didn’t have the energy to care even a little. 

Stiles stroked his hair and Derek registered that Stiles’ legs were next to his own. He settled, finally relaxing into the knowledge that he wouldn’t risk hurting Stiles’ hips just by lying down, and let Stiles comb his hair, even though he knew it would be probably the most obvious sex hair he’d ever had or have in his life. 

Derek breathed, ear on Stiles’ upper chest—almost at his collarbone. He could just barely hear Stiles’ heart. 

“So,” Stiles said long minutes later, and Derek stirred from a strange half-sleep. “Worth your while?” 

Something in Derek went cold, but he rolled his eyes, smirked a little, and said, as confidently as he could, “Yeah, I think so.” 

Whatever Stiles gave him was worth it. Always. 

But he couldn’t warm back up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome ;)
> 
> So 2020’s been one hell of a year. And I don't know if I will actually ever finish this, but I've revised the outline and clarified it a little more, updated the chapter count (13 + an epilogue), and I have chapter 7 drafted. 
> 
> I'm working on drafting chapter 8, too, and for chapter 8 on, I'm going to be writing in a sprint style, which is how I wrote some of my Kinktober 2019 stuff. Sprints work well for me actually getting words out, but they'll be less polished and often wordier than if I wrote them more slowly. I think it's a worthwhile tradeoff, though, considering, you know. 2020. 
> 
> I can't guarantee, obviously, whether or not there will be any regularity to updates, or whether this won't go back on hiatus in three weeks, but, for now, I'm going to _attempt_ to get this finished, even if it's imperfectly finished.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, kudos and comments are always appreciated.
> 
> If you want to see more of my fanworks, subscribe to my AO3 profile or follow me on tumblr at waitingforjudas.tumblr.com. You can also follow callusdropoutheroes.tumblr.com to get updates about where I am in drafting and editing new chapters, since I don't have a posting schedule.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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